


The Homefront

by xbedhead



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-season 7, Santos Administration, blatant jacking of Homeland plot, canon-compliant AU, conspiracies!, dramarama, terrorism!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:12:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xbedhead/pseuds/xbedhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kazakhstan didn't go away and a tragedy puts Josh in the hands of terrorists ready to use his influence with President Santos for their own means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much a blatant rip-off of the _Homeland_ story arc, but twisted to fit, I think, rather nicely into the canon universe of _The West Wing._
> 
> Imagine we're two years into the Santos Administration and Josh has put himself in the dog house again, setting a nightmare into motion all because of the truth in this description by President Bartlet:
> 
>   
>  _"You know what the difference is between you and me? I wanna be the guy. You wanna be the guy the guy counts on."_   
> 

_28 June, 2010; present day_

“No, Congressman, I don’t think you _can_ just sit this one out. Your vote is key in the matter. I understand that – believe me, I’m aware of the circumstances.”

President Santos looks up as Sam Seaborn enters the Oval Office with a blue folder and his briefcase.

“The Deerfield files,” he mouths, placing the folder on the president’s desk and opening it to the third page. He taps his finger on two places and the president signs where he’s indicated.

“No, that’s not the issue – the issue is that we have almost three hundred thousand troops that need simple things like food and ammunition.” President Santos holds the phone to his ear with his shoulder and straightens up the file up before handing it back to Sam. He nods even though the Congressman can’t see him. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I agree and I can understand where you’re –”

Sam gives him a concerned look and taps his watch, holding up his briefcase. Santos nods readily and mouths “thank you” as he adjusts himself in the chair, ready to renew the persuasion tactics. Before Sam can leave, however, Kate Harper comes through the open door into the Oval.

The look on her face prompts the president to end the call. “Mike, I’m sorry. I’m gonna have to call you back tomorrow.” He hangs up the phone and fixes an intense gaze on his Chief Advisor on Kazakhstan Affairs. “What’s goin’ on?”

She wastes no time in getting to her explanation. “Mr. President, I received a call fifteen minutes ago from our base near Ayaguz. One of their recon units liaised with a trusted local informant and recovered a man claiming to be Joshua Lyman.”

A tiny sound escapes the president’s opened lips, but he says nothing. There is a soft ‘clunk’ as Sam’s briefcase falls; he removes his glasses, leaning back shakily against the arm of the sofa opposite the president. 

“Josh?” Sam whispers. “A-are we…is this…how-how sure are we?” he manages, doing his best to tamp down the quivering in his voice.

Kate spares just a moment to give him an understanding smile, then steps back so she can see both men easily. “I spoke with Commander Rawls – he knew Josh. He says it’s him.”

“And he’s alive?” the president asks, finally finding his voice.

“Yes, sir. Commander Rawls said he’s in rough shape superficially, but otherwise seems to be in no immediate danger health wise. They’re preparing to evac him on your orders.”

“Where?”

“Yokosuka or Landstuhl.”

He takes a breath, spreads his hands out flat on his desk. “And they’re sure he’s all right?”

“As best they can tell from a brief exam. He's banged up and they won’t know more without some tests.”

“Is he talking?”

“I believe so, sir.”

He nods, coming to a decision, though he’s obviously shaken. “Landstuhl. I don’t want them in Chinese or Russian airspace for so long. We hear anything over the wire? Any indication…?”

“No, sir. All’s quiet.”

“All right,” he says, nodding once more. “Get him out of there – I want a report on his condition in the plane every thirty minutes and I wanna to talk to him as soon as they’re wheels down at Ramstein.”

“Yes, sir.” She steps back as the president stands, nodding curtly then leaving the office as swiftly as she’d entered.

The president is slipping on his suit jacket when he asks, “You all right, Sam?”

Sam snaps himself out of the daze that’s settled over him and stares back blankly for a moment. “I’m sorry, sir?”

“You gonna be all right?” the president repeats, coming to stand in front of his Chief of Staff.

“I...yes. Yes, sir. I wasn’t…I never…” He trails off, taking a moment to force down what seems like a wad of cotton that’s lodged itself in his throat.

“I know. Me neither.” He gives Sam a strong squeeze on his shoulder and asks, “Where’s Donna?”

And it’s like déjà vu.

*****

 _16 October, 2008_

“He’s been missing thirty-five days and you haven’t been issued a ransom or an ultimatum. I think that’s indicative of the kind of situation we’re dealing with here.”

President Bartlet switched his cane from one hand to the other, focused on the untouched teacup sitting on the coffee table between him and President Santos. His entire body radiated a sort of nervous energy – his knees bouncing as his heels lifted in rapid-fire succession, his fingers squeezing almost white-knuckled around the mahogany staff when it slapped against his palms.

President Santos’ voice was conciliatory when he spoke. He knew the kind of personal investment the man before him has in this situation. “I’ve been in constant communication with the Russian and Chinese –”

“And they’re giving you the run-around, I’m sure.” 

The two presidents looked one another in the eye, neither wanting to be the first to blink.

“No, sir,” Santos began, “they’re being cautious. Members of their delegations were taken as well.”

“I’m aware of that,” Bartlet retorted, barely managing to keep his voice civil. He sighed after a moment, shoulders sagging under the tremendous weight of his unseen burden.

“We've brought in some consultants - Kate Harper, you'll remember - and we’ve been working on several contingency plans with both governments, each involving a number of troops from our Special Forces divisions that – ”

“If they were gonna do something, they already would’ve done it!” Bartlet snapped, blue eyes suddenly ablaze, cane clutched in his right hand. “They’re waiting on **you** \- _you_ have to be the one to take charge here!”

“ _Mr. President_!”

Both men looked the office door Ronna had just come bursting through.

“I’m sorry, sir – come quickly,” she said breathlessly, then disappeared into the waiting area.

Both men rushed from Oval Office – Santos in front, Barlet moving behind him as quickly as he was able. Before President Santos could ask her what was going on, his eyes locked on the television.

The flat screen mounted on the wall was tuned to CNN and there were half a dozen people already crowded around the doorway, folders and files clutched to their chests, their eyes glued to the display. The footage was sort of grainy, but it was clear enough.

Josh Lyman was in a poorly lit room, shown from his waist up, seated stiffly at a plain wooden table. Behind him, the red and black flag of the Kazakh rebel fighters flanked by two shrouded men with automatic rifles in hand; in front, a sheet of paper. 

His hair stood out at wild angles and the circles under in eyes were dark and deep, his cheeks sunken and his skin taking on a new level of pallor, though discolored around his jaw, marked with bruises. He had a solid beard growing and his dress shirt was gaping at the neck, ripped in several places…stained a dark brown around the collar.

“…and this…illegal involvement in the…civil issues of a sovereign state.”

His voice was shaking, pained as he spoke the words in a monotonous voice, wheezing around every syllable.

“I represent…a…a…”

His bloodshot eyes lifted from the paper to stare into the camera – into the eyes of everyone watching, around the world. His mouth fixed in a straight line, he swallowed hard and he started to shake his head. 

The shot cut suddenly and the position of his body shifted noticeably, though the camera hadn’t moved. He now seemed dazed, his body swaying back and forth a few moments while he obviously tried to collect his bearings. 

“You seeing this?” President Santos asked, his gaze directed to Sam who’d just pushed through the throng of people at the door.

Sam only nodded, his worried focus returning to the television.

“Get me Kate Harper. I want her in my office with a full report in ten minutes,” the president ordered Ronna quietly, keeping his eyes on the image of Josh.

His left eye had begun to turn an angry red and there was a trickle of fresh blood at the corner of his mouth. This time when he spoke, the words came out in a slurred mumble.

The paper had disappeared also and he spoke directly to the camera.

“I represent…a morally depraved government…operating in matters…that we have no responsibility for. The invasion of our military…and subsequent…occupation of their…homeland…complicity in the brutal murder of…thousands of Kazakh men, women…children…will not go unpunished.”

He started slumping dangerously to the left and the screen went black, the transmission stopping until the shot cut back to the visibly shaken news anchor.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we believe what you just saw was Chief of Staff to President Santos, _Joshua Lyman_. As you may recall, he was a member of a ten-man peace resolution delegation to Kazakhstan that was attacked and overrun by local, armed militia the morning of September 11th, leaving four members of Secret Service, two State Department officials and three Russian and Chinese envoys dead.”

The anchor held her finger to an earpiece and nodded, scanning the notes she had in front of her while speaking. “This is the first official communication from the group responsible for the strike, and though, at present, they remain unknown, the Islamic Jihad Union, Al Qaeda and the Eastern Turkistan Islamic Movement have all expressed public support on last month’s assault. More on that when we come back in a moment. This is CNN Headline News.”

Ronna had cut the volume as soon as the programming switched to commercials and President Santos moved to the center of the now-crowded waiting area. “I want a copy of that tape,” he announced to no one in particular. “I want a sit down with whoever obtained it at CNN and I want the Joint Chiefs in the Situation Room. _Now_.”

The staffers had scattered immediately, each retreating to their own station to begin work on what they intrinsically knew to be next: either a rescue attempt or a hostage negotiation. 

Jed Bartlet was leaning heavily against what used to be Charlie Young’s desk, his upper body drooping forward as he obviously tried to process what he’d just seen. President Santos put a hand on the older man’s shoulder, his heart clenching when he felt the tremble beneath his touch. 

“You get my boy back,” Bartlet ordered weakly, pausing a few moments before he looked up. 

Santos took in the way Bartlet’s face had paled and a cold sweat broke out at his temples. “Oh my God.”

He left the former president’s side, nearly sprinting out of the office and running over Sam Seaborn in the process.

“I’m sorry, sir – I have the – ”

Santos grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking his head as he caught the breath he’d suddenly lost. “Where’s Donna?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the attack unfolds, the ramifications are felt from one wing of the White House to the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor changes to the story have occurred (Kate Harper is not the NSA, but rather an advisor) as this continues to be a fluid story. Please see chapter one for any further clarification needed.
> 
> I want to give a big thanks to my betas - Afiakate and Spinninginfinity - for all their help with the ins and outs of storytelling. I've made a few changes after they took their looks, so any remaining errors are on me. Thank you for stepping on board, gals!

_11 September, 2008_

“And we’re _sure_ he was taken? I mean, _look_ at that.”

President Santos gestured to the collage of fiery carnage on the interactive panel in the Situation Room. There were stills from the initial sweep inlaid over maps of the region – photographs from the initial recon team from the base at Ayaguz.

“Is it possible he’s…”

Harold Glenn shook his head somberly, referring momentarily to one of the half-dozen reports he had in front of him. “Some of the bodies were burned beyond recognition, but all indications are that he wasn’t traveling in either of the Humvees struck by RPG fire. He was reported to have been riding with the State liaison, Lisa Herald, whose body was recovered – Josh wasn’t inside.”

Santos expelled a shaky breath and worked the muscles in his jaw, doing his best to reign in his emotions before the assembled Joint Chiefs. “Have we heard anything from the Russian or Chinese embassies? They said five people are unaccounted for – someone in their delegations was most likely taken.”

“I’ve been in communication with their military attachés,” General Alexander, offered, “though they’re being tight-lipped about who’s missing. Our guys have recovered all the bodies and will return to Ayaguz to begin the identification process, but that’s gonna take some time.”

“I still want a sit down with them before noon,” Santos ordered, directing his gaze at an intense Sam Seaborn. “We need to compare notes.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam nodded.

“When is Swain back?”

Sam consulted the Secretary of Defense’s schedule and relayed, “Wheels down at 10:52, Mr. President.”

“Sir…there’s another pressing issue,” Glenn began reluctantly.

The president pulled his eyes away from the images of burned-out tactical vehicles and smoldering pavement surrounded by high canyon walls. He looked at his National Security Advisor expectantly.

“Josh has code level clearance.”

\----

He blew out through his nose, furiously attempting to dislodge the mess that slicked between his face and the black bag tied over his head. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe and the water kept coming as he continued to retch the remains of last night’s canned fish.

With the next douse, the vomit washed into his eyes and he howled, blinking hard to try and kill the acid-like burn. He struggled against whoever was holding him down, but his legs were tied, his arms pinned awkwardly behind his back. Someone was practically sitting on his chest, making inhaling nearly impossible.

When the panicked shard of a thought that he might actually drown became fully formed, the scratchy wool sack was finally ripped from his head. The weight on his chest disappeared. He blew out several harsh breaths, sputtering and snorting when something slapped his cheek, hard, and he shook himself out of the daze.

A featureless face hovered above him, an outline backlit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. He coughed repeatedly, trying to dispel the dirty water from his rattling lungs.

“When is the next supply delivery?” the face asked.

“I…what…?” he rasped, chest still heaving from the lack of oxygen. He struggled to sit up, then remembered he was tied, upside down and reclined; his eyes felt like they may explode from the pressure of the blood build-up in his head.

“ _When_ are the supplies due in Ayaguz?” the face repeated, annunciating each syllable through his thick accent. “Will they come by air or truck this time?”

He turned his head from one side to the other, as if the empty space on either side of the room would hold an answer to the questions. He could barely see, but knew there was nothing. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest to his hyperventilating, but he couldn’t calm himself – he had no idea if he was ever going to get out, to get home. His mother couldn’t – Donna would be – 

“Mr. Lyman?” Another slap. “ _Focus_.”

His attention snapped back to the man that seemed to float above him.

“Please,” he started, but the face cut him off.

“The supplies – when are they coming?”

“I don’t know,” he insisted, shaking his head and hacking once more. “I…I have no – ”

He stopped himself short when the black sack was forced back over his head. He screamed, kicked and writhed as much as he could, but the ropes held fast and the weight on his chest was back.

And then the water resumed.

\-----

Sam gave Annabeth a look and tossed his head toward her office entrance where several women from the secretary pool were standing, their eyes red-rimmed and filled with worry. She nodded, rushing quickly and quietly to the doorway, murmuring assurances that Donna was as all right as she could be and she’d tell her they stopped by.

Donna, for all intents and purposes, didn’t seem to notice anyone in the room – not Annabeth’s desk phone ringing off the hook or Sam’s arm around pulled tight around her shoulder, let alone her co-workers coming by to offer their prayers and condolences. Her gaze was focused on the window, seeing but not seeing the unusually bright morning light filtering through.

Sam watched her hands – her delicate, long fingers with perfectly manicured nails – as they alternated between wringing round one another in a white-knuckled grip and furiously twisting the engagement ring he’d help Josh pick out a month before. The tiny diamonds looked almost dull in the low light of Annabeth’s office. 

His head snapped up as the phone rang again; Donna didn’t move. Annabeth was back at her desk as quickly as her short strides could manage.

“Annabeth Schott…no comment.”

She hung up with a sigh, straightening her glasses then taking a drink of water from the bottle she’d been carrying with her all morning. She fidgeted, checking her phone, then tapping a few keys on her laptop, scrolling through the latest headlines on AP and Reuters.

Sam leaned back, giving Donna some space but keeping his arm draped over her shoulders. “Things are already in motion,” he whispered. “They’ve got two Ranger units doing recon – they’re trained for this kind of thing. They’re taking statements from the man in the military transport that survived. Commander Dickson at Ayaguz is giving real-time updates directly to the President.”

Donna nodded, at least giving an indication that she’d heard Sam, but otherwise said nothing.

“No one’s sleeping on this, Donna – I won’t let them.”

She nodded once more and Sam gave her a light kiss on the temple. “I’ve gotta go – I need to arrange a meeting with the Chinese and Russian embassies. I’ll be back in a little while.”

She squeezed his hand and gave him a watery smile as he stood.

“Annabeth? Keep me updated,” Sam ordered, giving her a significant look before stepping out of the office.

He flipped through the briefing packet he’d been given in the Sit Room, consciously avoiding the pages with the graphics from the scene of the attack. There was nothing good in it. 

All indications were that a small-scale rebel group was responsible for the attack – God knows how they got the kind of weaponry that was used – and had yet to make any contact with the White House or State Department. Harold Glenn had mentioned his experience working with smaller groups was oftentimes more complex – they were unpredictable at best, and tended to have a limited set of demands…ones that were typically difficult to fulfill.

But Josh was an indispensable asset – _surely_ they had to realize the bargaining chip they had. Surely that would factor into his treatment, his perceived value, prevent them from any hasty decisions. 

Having been ordered to gather every bit of information regarding the Kazakhstan Intervention Josh had ever laid eyes on, he rounded a corner at a clipped pace, gaze still glued to the files he was balancing.

“ _Oof!_ ” he grunted, struggling to regain his bearings after being blindsided.

The First Lady, who was moving as fast as humanly possible on marble floors in a pair of heels, exclaimed, “Sam!” 

She took him by the elbows and leaned in for a quick hug, disregarding the shuffling of papers and pagers and pens going on in the Deputy Chief of Staff’s arms. “I just heard. I was at a fundraiser meeting for the kids’ school.”

“Oh, ma’am – I’m – sorry, terribly sorry,” he muttered, fumbling to control the intelligence reports threatening to scatter to the floor.

“Is there anything new?” she asked, helping him keep the papers in his arms and gradually working them back into order.

“Not at the moment, no.”

“Oh. Okay,” she answered, somewhat mournfully as she maneuvered her way out of her suit jacket. “Where’s Donna?”

Sam indicated down the hall with his chin. “With Annabeth.”

“How is she?”

He took in Helen’s worried features – her drawn face, the way her eyebrows were nearly knit together – and knew he was speaking to her as a friend, not the First Lady. “I…she’s as expected.”

“And _you_? How’re _you_ holding up?”

He gave her a tight smile and a curt nod, blinking hard before he managed, “I’ve got some meetings to set up, ma’am. Excuse me.”

Sam was gone before Helen could offer another hug. She watched him nearly sprint down the corridor that led to the West Wing and felt heat spring to her eyes. Knowing she couldn’t very well offer Donna any comfort if she herself was falling apart, she took a moment to compose herself before continuing down the hall and into her Press Secretary’s office. 

Helen stepped slowly into the large, open room, dropping her purse by the door and draping her jacket across the back of the antique settee. Annabeth stood from her place on the couch and stepped away, making room for the First Lady. She gestured to the door and slipped out, closing it behind her.

Donna lifted her head at the commotion, looking around as if she was just realizing where she was. She saw the First Lady standing just a few feet away and sniffed, giving her a watery smile. “ _Oh_ \- ma’am. I’m sorry,” she started, attempting to straighten herself, wiping her eyes and nose on the handkerchief that somehow appeared in her grasp.

“Don’t you “ma’am” me – not today. I just heard,” Helen explained softly. She flanked Donna’s left side and wrapped her arm around her ribs, covering her hand with hers as Donna leaned into her.

She kissed the crown of Donna’s head and whispered, “I’m _so_ sorry, honey.”

“I asked him not to go.” 

She clutched at Helen’s left arm like it was the only thing keeping her afloat, holding tight as Helen began to rock her gently. The tears Helen had tried to hold back suddenly rushed to her eyes and she let them fall, streaming freely down her cheeks and into the soft blonde hair of her chief advisor and current best friend.

She placed another kiss in Donna’s hair and whispered, “Matt is going to do everything humanly possible to get Josh back.”

At that, Donna’s back began shuddering and she shrank into Helen’s embrace. 

“I-I asked…” Donna struggled to get the words out, her voice high and weepy as she finally broke down. “I should’ve _told_ him.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What exactly did Josh do to put himself in the hands of a terrorist organization? It's not the entire story, but it's the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to afiakate and spinninginfinity for their help with the beta'ing and development of this story. I really appreciate it, ladies!

_14 August, 2008_

“Josh, it’s not your fault.”

He dropped his briefcase and suit jacket onto the couch and let out an explosive sigh. “It doesn’t matter if it’s my fault or not, Donna – he’s blaming me. And besides,” he added lamely as he toed off his shoes, leaving them in his path to the kitchen, “it kinda _is_.”

Donna slid out of her heels and placed them neatly by the door; she hung her purse on the knob. “Did you tell him what Massey said to you?” she argued, her tone thick with annoyance. “He had _no_ right – ”

“I’m not gonna cry to the president about it,” he snapped. “I’m a big boy, I know how to play the game; today I got played.” He jerked his tie loose and ripped open the refrigerator door, muttering to himself, “Bastard’s been out for me since Hoynes – ten years now and he was just _waiting_ for the right moment...”

“What did Sam say?” she asked, padding her way into the living room across the warm hardwood floor.

Josh twisted the cap off the beer in his hand and took a pull from the longneck. He slouched against the countertop and fixed his stare on her, holding her gaze a long moment before looking away. “He asked me if I was gonna put my hand through a window again, then reminded me that Angela Blake is probably somewhere on speed dial.”

She trailed behind him into the kitchen and leaned in close, smoothing her palms over his chest and undoing the top two buttons of his dress shirt for him. “That doesn’t sound helpful at all.”

“It really wasn’t,” he mumbled against the mouth of the bottle before taking another drink.

They stayed that way for a moment – her resting on him, him not looking at her – until the amber glass was sweating and his lower back started to hurt where it was pressed against the edge of the counter.

“Josh…” 

Donna shook her head, stopping herself before she had the chance to say anything else.

“What?” he pressed, his tone self-conscious, doubting.

“I don’t…” She cut herself off again with a sigh, then looked away for a brief second. “I don’t understand why he put this on _you_ \- you, of all people, having to force _this_ bill through.”

Josh shifted away from the counter, stepping around her as he barreled into the sitting area. “What are you talking about? It’s my _job_ , Donna,” he said over his shoulder, beer dangling between his thumb and index finger. “If he can’t count on me to do that – _all_ of it – then why the hell am I Chief of Staff?”

She followed him into the living room, keeping her voice calm but insistent. “You know you’ve been on edge since Barrington and _Sam_ could’ve – ”

“ _I_ do legislation, Donna. _Me_. I can’t just go… _pawn_ off what I’ve picked through onto Sam’s plate,” he shouted, the pitch of his voice rising as he paced. “And besides – maybe I _wanted_ this bill. Maybe _I_ wanted to get it pushed through.”

“Josh.”

He stopped walking and sighed, the weight of what he’d done settling onto his shoulders. “And I fucked it up.”

“Hey.”

She was next to him again, her hip aligning with his as he propped himself against the dining room table. She took the bottle from his hand and set it on a coaster behind him, stepping between his legs and pressing her body flush with his, forcing him to look at her. She gave him a gentle kiss on the lips, but said nothing otherwise.

He looked into her eyes as long as he dared, and, finding nothing but acceptance, he looked up, staring at the recessed lighting in the ceiling, his own eyes suddenly burning. He didn’t deserve that – especially not from Donna, not from someone who actually understood how royally he’d just screwed everything up.

“We were _so_ close,” he whispered, pulling her tight against his chest. “The only thing standing between tenth-graders and a ninety-day waiting period on all handguns is this _prick_ we’ve got for a soon-to-be Minority Leader.”

Donna rubbed her cheek against the soft fabric of his shirt, taking in the fibers that were slightly damp with his sweat, smelling like Old Spice and Tide and _him_.

“They’ll call a recess until after the mid-terms – if they don’t get it, Massey’ll round up a filibuster.”

His voice rumbled deep in his chest, vibrating against her ear, nearly drowning out the steadily slowing staccato of his heartbeat. 

“We’re probably gonna lose the Senate in November and this bill’s never gonna see the light of day.”

She kissed the exposed skin at the ‘V’ of his collar and pushed herself back, mustering as much sympathy as she could when she was this exhausted. She hugged him and gave him a soft smile. 

“It’s been a long day and it’s hot.” She patted his chest gently, running her hands over the clenched muscles and kneading the corded tissue she found bunched at his shoulders.

Josh groaned and let his head drift down, half-lidded eyes raking over her body and settling where their hips joined. He reached for her, smoothed his fingers flat over her ribcage, sliding them gently, almost reverently down to her lower belly. He let his right hand linger there, spreading his fingers wide and imagining a day maybe not so far into the future when his palm couldn’t span the area.

Donna smiled and covered his hand with both of hers, the silver band with a simple diamond inlay glinting in the dining room light. Even after two weeks, she hadn’t gotten used to the way it looked on her left hand. “Let’s take a shower and go to bed.”

_What dangers would his children face because of what he’d done today?_

“I’ll be there in a minute.” 

“Josh?”

He sighed, abruptly pushing himself up from the table, steadying Donna as he moved her back. “I’m gonna take a walk. There’s no way I can sleep right now anyway.”

He hastily slipped his feet back into his dress shoes, struggling with the leather at his heels as he staggered toward the door.

Donna frowned and checked the clock on the mantel. “Sweetheart, it’s almost midnight.”

“I have my phone. Don’t wait up,” he said over his shoulder as he slipped out the door.

****

_14 August, 2008; earlier that day_

“I thought we had a game plan.”

Josh was perched on the edge of the sofa, staring at the presidential seal in the carpet while Santos was leaning back in the leather chair behind his desk. An orange glow from the setting sun filtered into the Oval Office.

“You and Massey aren’t exactly friends. I thought we decided this deserved _tact_ , some _restraint_.”

Josh nodded, chancing a look at the president from hooded brows. He looked away almost instantly, ashamed at what he’d done, what he’d allowed himself to be goaded into.

“So what happened? How did he go from being on the fence to the next county over, taking half my Senate with him?”

“He had no intention of –” Josh cut himself off abruptly, rubbing his temples between his forefinger and thumb, then expelling a harsh breath. “I messed up, sir.”

Santos chuffed out a laugh that held very little amusement. “ _Obviously_.”

Josh struggled past a fiery knot that was trying to work its way up his throat. “We…exchanged words and I…I probably pushed a little too hard.”

The president reclined in his chair, rocking himself back and forth by pressing the tips of his fingers against the surface of the desk. “You’ve been going head-to-head against Jake Massey for years,” he commented absently. “I think it was more than that.”

“He said – ”

Josh stopped himself. There wasn’t any excuse for what he’d responded with, no matter what the Senator had baited him with – and it sounded petulant to bring it up now, when the heat of the moment had passed.

But Santos wasn’t buying the sudden silence. He sat up, voice piqued with interest when he asked, “What? What’d he say?”

\---

_“You pass this for handguns, the next step is assault rifles.”_

_“Of course it is. No one needs an assault rifle to hunt with unless they’re looking to obliterate anything they come across. They’re designed for maximum carnage, for death on a mass scale.”_

_“And what do I get in return?”_

_“What do you – what?”_

_“This isn’t gonna go over well with my campaign supporters.”_

_“_ Campaign supporters? _How about you get to promise your constituency that it’ll be a hell of a lot harder for another Barrington High massacre to happen?”_

_“I can’t take another two hours of this – you know it doesn’t work like that.”_

_“Are you sure you’re a Democrat? I’ve had my doubts in the past, but –”_

_“Are you sure you’d be riding this so hard if you didn’t have a hole in your chest?”_

_“You ever stop to think for a_ second _you wouldn’t be in this chair, in this office, in this building if Senator Jackson hadn’t fucked his nanny?”_

\---

Josh swallowed again, forcing himself to look the president in the eye. “It’s nothing, sir – it doesn’t matter.”

He let the moment hang there in the quiet before offering, “I wanted this bill, Mr. President.”

“I did, too, damnit!” Santos suddenly shouted, pounding a closed fist on the heavy oak surface. “That’s why we wrote it! Pushed it through the House. That’s why you _assured_ me you’d get this done. That’s why I let you have this – against my better judgment – when I knew you were too involved.”

He shot up from his chair and came around the desk, prompting Josh to stand as well. The president paced the length of the Oval Office, twisting his wedding band around his finger as he spoke.

“ _I_ wanted this bill, Josh. _I_ did. I wanted it for my kids, their classmates – I want them to be _safe_ in school and not havin’ to worry about another…deranged lunatic with an arsenal bustin’ into the lunchroom.”

He stopped in his tracks and stood before Josh, prompting his Chief of Staff to look him in the eye. 

“This is the first time in six years we’ve had a Democratic Senate. Six _years_. We finally passed a bill with teeth through a Republican House and…well, we blew it.”

_You blew it._

He let that thought linger before backing up to sit on the edge of his desk, one foot dangling above the carpeted floor. “Are we ever, you know, actually gonna get anything _done_ around here? That’s what people are asking me, the people who voted for me.”

Josh remained silent, knowing at this point the question was rhetorical – they were about to lose the Senate by a predicted overwhelming margin, the president’s approval rating was in the toilet, the country was divided over their involvement in Kazakhstan, and, after almost two years, there was no end in sight. He clasped his hands together behind his back and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, waiting for the president to continue.

“Education bill is tanked – that was gonna be an uphill battle _before_ Kazakhstan,” Santos ticked off, literally counting on his fingers. “Healthcare’s shot – no money to take on the lobbyists because I gotta make sure our troops have jackets this winter. This was the one thing we had that would make this country a better place and didn’t cost anybody a dime.”

He rapped his knuckles on his desk in frustration and pushed himself to his feet, slipping slowly around to his chair as he mused, “You know, people warned me about you, Josh.” 

Josh watched the president as he returned to his seat, his brow and mouth in a hard line. “Sir?” 

“They said you were ruthless – and that’s what I needed on the campaign trail, what made you a good Deputy, Leo’s attack dog.” 

President Santos held his gaze evenly, obviously considering the man standing before him. “But they warned me that you’re…prone to fly off the handle. I think we’ve made a good team so far, but stuff like this…it’s got me worried, maybe thinking their opinions have a little more weight than I gave them at the time.” 

At that, Josh took a step forward, grimacing at the ulcer roiling in his stomach. “I’m sorry, sir. I won’t – ” 

“Oh, I _know_ ,” the president interjected, nodding his head resolutely. “I know you are. And I know you’re gonna make it up to me, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking a kind of 'ripped from the headlines' approach with this story, infusing real-life issues into the various arcs. It makes for compelling television, and I hope stories. I don't mean any disrespect by it and hope it doesn't offend anyone. I love to hear your thoughts as well.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More backstory on what pushed Josh into Kazakhstan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afiakate and spinninginfinity - thank you both so much! Your suggestions and insights have been so incredibly helpful.
> 
> And thanks to everyone else for the kudos and comments - I love hearing what you have to say!

_30 August, 2008_

“Josh…”

“Do you know we spent four hundred million on military marching bands last year? _Marching bands_.”

“Josh…”

“The House wants to cut _Medicaid_ so Defense can get its three percent increase. They can reallocate it from the trumpet players. This is bullshit.”

Donna yawned and stepped into the living room slowly, wrapping her arms around her nightshirt-clad ribcage. She sidled up next to Josh, who was furiously taking notes, highlighting, and paper-clipping various pages in the ten thousand page file he had spread out on the dining room table. If she didn’t know him, know the way his thought process worked, she’d be a little worried at the recent nightly reenactment of the more manic scenes from _A Beautiful Mind._

She’d tried her best to help him, to keep things organized and do some of the reading, but he was short-fused, barking orders and never satisfied with her suggestions. A few nights earlier, for the sake of her sanity and their relationship, she decided to take a step back and let him work through his issues in the only way he seemed to know how – to fix his mistake by making perfect on his next assignment.

Only his next assignment had been the federal budget. And it hadn’t exactly been _his_ assignment in the first place.

“Four hundred _million_.” He tossed his pen down on the pile of papers and rubbed harshly at his eyes. “We could fund another Peace Corps with that, ya know?” he muttered. “Double it, send ‘em all to Kazakhstan to teach and work in clinics, see what they come up with.”

She leaned against his back and rubbed his shoulders, her fingers shifting under the thin fabric of his undershirt. His back was in knots and he shuddered, her fingers cool on his warm, sticky skin. “Sweetheart, it’s after four,” she said quietly, stifling another yawn.

His head snapped up, briefly checking the time on the mantel clock his mother had gotten them for Channukah last year.

“ _Shit_ ,” he exclaimed, snatching up his pen and resuming his hunched posture over the papers. 

She sighed and let her hands slip away from his shoulders. “Josh – ”

He cut her off, his tone warning. “ _Donna_.”

“You don’t convene on this for another two weeks and – ”

“And it needs to be done before then,” he snapped, sparing a glance over his shoulder at her. “You’re acting like the country we’re running doesn’t need money to function and the damn House isn’t trying to drain every penny we have from any kind of social program that, oh, I don’t know, _actually helps Americans_.” 

“ _And_ ,” she continued, undeterred by his diatribes after nine years in the office and twenty-one months of living together, “you have a meeting about this in the morning – it can hold until then. You need to get some sleep.”

She tried shifting a stack of papers from the extra chair so she could sit, but Josh half-stood, awkwardly leaning over and trying to pin the files in his lap with one hand while reaching for what she was moving with the other. 

“I don’t have _time_ for sleep,” he slurred around the pen he had clenched between his teeth. He took the messy folders and put them down in the corner of the table, flipping through a few of the pages before returning to his seat.

“You _do_ have time – right now,” she countered, hating that this had turned into a daily argument for them. “Now is the time when people sleep.”

“ _ **God**_ , Donna, I – ”

She flinched at his tone and he stopped himself short, sighing as he tucked his pen behind his ear and pressed his fingertips to his temples. 

“Donna…I’m sorry. I really am, but you…I’m worked up now and there’s no way I’m sleeping tonight.”

She straightened at that, incredulous. “And _I_ did that? _I_ got you worked up?”

He spared her a withering look, but said nothing, opting to return to the spreadsheets full of pork and riders. “Could you, _please_ , just…let me concentrate on this?”

She took a deep breath and let him go back to his figuring during the moments she collected herself; she had to broach things carefully. She hadn’t brought up the handgun bill in a week because the last discussion ended in an icy silence that lasted nearly a day. She knew he was stressed, knew that what had happened with the legislation was eating at him, _knew_ that he had saddled any hope of redemption – to himself, to the president, the party – in getting this budget passed, on time and intact.

She shuddered at the thought of how he would react if he couldn’t make it happen. There was so much that was out of his hands, but try to make him see that and…

“I _know_ this is important to you,” she began patiently, eyes trained on him as he continued to scribble away. “I know it’s important to the _country_ , but it’s really starting to – Josh? Can you look at me when I’m speaking to you, please?”

He took a deep breath and pushed it out slowly, forcing himself to put his pen down and give Donna his attention. 

“This is worrying me.”

“What?” he asked, his tone carrying a hint of forced patience.

“You’ve been on edge for weeks now, and it’s really starting to worry me,” she repeated, speaking louder as he started to balk. “You’re not sleeping well. You snap at the littlest thing.”

“I _told_ you I was sorry.”

“And I think it might be time we – ”

“No, no, no – _don’t_.” He pushed his chair back, the scrap of the legs on the wooden floor almost deafening in the quiet apartment. “Don’t do this. Don’t say what it is that you’re gonna say, even though you’re gonna say it anyway.”

“I think we should call Stanley,” she finished quietly.

He shot from his chair like a rocket. “ _Stanley_? What’s Stanley Keyworth gonna do? Why would we call him? What would be the point of that?”

“It’s like that Christmas all over again. You’re stressed, you’re _angry_.” She leaned forward on her knees, watching as he paced a quick circle in front of the mantel. She was suddenly exhausted with the whole thing – his moods affected her in ways she never could’ve imagined before they started living together and she had to fight to keep the frustration out of her voice. “I’m _worried_. When you _do_ sleep, you’ve been having nightmares about the shooting, about Gaza, about – ”

“No, no – see, you wanna know what my nightmares are about?” he interrupted, whirling around to face her. “They’re about all the shootings that are _gonna_ happen because I fucked over the handgun bill. They’re about our soldiers _dying_ in Kazakhstan because I couldn’t figure out a way to convince Matt Santos that pulling out at 12:01 January 20th was the best option,” he fired off bitterly.

“Okay, Josh, look – _first_ of all, there’s a lot more to the president maintaining a presence in Kazakhstan than your powers of persuasion, so you can check the ego.”

“My _ego_? You think it’s my _ego_ that’s – ”

“And _secondly_ ,” she continued, raising her voice to speak over him as she gestured to the mess of paperwork, “ _Sam_ is supposed to be in charge of this.”

He slammed his fist on the table, sending papers flying and paperclips bouncing. “ _That was before the CBO decided they needed to overhaul the budget I submitted seven months ago, damnit!_”

Josh held her gaze for a moment, then had the good grace to look away. His pale face had flushed red and his chest rose quickly with each erratic breath. He slid slowly into back into the chair, slumping as he sat and struggled to lower his heart rate.

The room was heavy with silence once again and it was a long moment before either of them spoke.

“I’m going to bed,” Donna announced, voice quiet as she stood and walked by him.

“ _Donna._ ” 

He reached for her, apologies in his fingertips as they brushed her bare thighs, but she swatted them away, slinking silently into their empty bedroom.

***

_19 August, 2008_

“I like it. Why don’t you head that up then, Sam?”

Five surprised faces – Sam’s included – stared back at the president. No one said anything for a moment, then Josh cleared his throat. 

“Sir, I’ve been running lead on – ”

“I’m gonna go with Sam on this one, Josh.” The president rounded his desk and took a seat behind it, signaling the meeting was at a closing point. “You’ve got that thing with the Kennedy Center and I need you to put your energy on that.”

“The Kennedy Center thing.” Josh held the president’s gaze for a long moment before giving him a curt nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Anything else?” Santos asked the room.

“No, sir,” came the echo of the other four staffers.

Just then, Bram Howard poked his head around the doorway. “Mr. President? Senator Andrews is here.”

“Send him in in two, would you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sam, Louise Thornton, Terrance Wheeler and Catherine Stephens gathered up their notes and filed out through Ronna and Bram’s shared office.

Josh lingered, catching the president’s attention before asking, “Do you need me to…”

“No, Josh – Senator Andrews might be more receptive if – ”

“I understand, sir.”

Josh tucked his files under his arm and left through the side exit as Senator Andrews stepped into the Oval.

“Senator, welcome.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. You know I hate to be the bearer of bad news…”

“Hey, Josh?”

He turned, casting a look over his shoulder as Sam trotted up behind him. “What’s up?” 

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“You know I never…”

“This is a short hallway, Sam – what is it?” he asked, giving him a small smile as he continued to his corner office.

“I’m sorry,” Sam repeated, flustered. “I didn’t – I had no idea he would take my suggestion and turn it into me heading up the committee.”

“I know that.”

“I…”

Josh paused, taking in the distraught look on his deputy – and best friend’s – face. “Sam? It’s fine. It is what it is right now, I know that.”

He clapped him on the shoulder and stepped into the anteroom where Margaret was waiting for him with a handful of neon-colored Post-Its. 

“Your ten o’clock cancelled.”

Josh slipped into his office, Sam still trailing behind him, and called over his shoulder, “Reiner?”

Margaret followed, asking from the doorway, “Yeah. Wants to reschedule for Monday. I said I’d ask you.”

He dumped his stack of papers onto his already-cluttered desk. “That’s fine.”

“And Representative Hancock would like a moment.”

“I don’t need a meeting for that,” he replied distractedly as he combed through the chaos that had spilled over into his chair. “Tell her I said ‘no’ – like the last four times. Say it slowly if you have to.”

“You’ve got a meeting on the budget at one.”

“You free?” Josh asked Sam as he tossed a book in the general direction of his shelf. 

“Had lunch with Val, but I can cut it short.”

“Tell her I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” 

Josh turned to Margaret. “Tell Barry Sam’s gonna take that. And what is all this _crap_?”

“I have no idea,” she replied, straightening herself to her full height as Josh continued to move files from one pile to another.

“Well, aren’t you _supposed_ to? I thought you were my assistant? Leo’s desk never looked like this.”

“Leo and I had a connection.”

Josh looked up, brows arched and forehead full of wrinkles. “A connection?”

“We’re not even close to that.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

“And Donna says not to enable you.”

Josh sighed loudly. “Anything else?”

Margaret flipped through her dwindling notes and shrugged. “No. That pretty much does it. _Oh_. That thing at the Kennedy Center?”

“Yeah?”

“They wanna know if the president’s calling for white or black tie.”

Satisfied that he now had a place to sit, he shrugged out of his suit coat. “What’s it matter?”

“Something to do with the napkins.”

He sighed, giving her a confounded look. “Margaret, have you ever heard of the word ‘punctilious’?”

She gave him a solemn nod. “It’s been used in my presence several times, yes.”

“Just checkin’. Tell ‘em black for now and we’ll hope it doesn’t usher in the apocalypse if he goes with white.”

With that, she slipped out of his office and Josh took a seat at his desk, running his fingers through his hair with an explosive sigh. He resumed flipping through the stack of papers before him, taking out a few and placing them in slightly more organized piles. 

“I’ll get you my notes in a few,” he muttered, looking up at Sam distractedly. “Should give you time to brush up before the meeting.”

“You can come, Josh. It’s not like it won’t be a group effort – and Barry’s been working with you for weeks now.”

Josh leaned back in his chair, shaking his head as he pressed his fingertips into his eye sockets. “It’s better if I don’t,” he grunted. “I don’t wanna give them mixed signals about who’s in charge on this. At least right now – if you need me, though…”

“Yeah. Of course.” Sam started for the door, but stopped abruptly. “Hey – Burton’s still calling about 154.”

Josh glanced briefly at his deputy, and then went back to his paperwork, opening a folder and quickly becoming engrossed in the text.

“Josh?” Sam stepped back into the office, waiting patiently in front of his boss’ desk. “154?”

“Yeah, we’re gonna have to let that one go,” Josh said quickly, making a note and closing the file before moving on to another one. 

“You’re kidding.”

Josh finally looked up from his desk. “Why would I kid about something so important as a resolution to declare the Russian government being involved in a dissident’s death?”

Sam ignored the sarcasm. “It’s _antagonistic_ and you know it.”

Josh snorted and went back to his files. “It’ll die in Committee.”

“That’s not the point,” Sam fired back. “What? Now we’re just gonna _bend over_ and take it from both ends because you’re – ”

Josh’s head shot up at that and Sam cut himself off abruptly. The men stared at each another for a long moment before Sam straightened, his lips pursed. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for,” he said stiffly.

Josh nodded slowly, leaning back in his chair. “Anything else?”

Sam opened his mouth to say something further, but the words died on his lips. He shook his head.

“I’ll have Margaret send those notes over,” Josh said curtly, returning to his paperwork. 

Sam hung back for the briefest of moments, pausing before he stepped out of the office. “Josh?”

Josh looked up wearily, stilling his pen mid-motion, but saying nothing and prompting Sam to continue.

“Ya know, it’s only been a few days,” he offered gently, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m sure he’ll – ”

“I’ll get you those notes, Sam.”

Sam straightened again, schooling his face to a neutral expression after being so obviously dismissed. “Okay.”

He slipped out of the room with a nod to Margaret and was already confirming arrangements for the budget meeting with Jake, his intern cum assistant, when Lou caught up to him. “Sam, got a second?”

“Not really.”

She ignored the reply and handed him a detailed outline with several bullet points highlighted and underlined. “I wanted to get your opinion on the talking points for next week’s speech at the Center.”

Sam scanned the notes, brows furrowing as he read through them while they walked swiftly toward the bullpen. “I thought you already went over this with Josh.”

“I did, but – ”

Sam came to a dead stop, prompting Jake and Lou to come to skidding halts on either side of him. He handed the notes back to her forcefully. “Do me a favor? From now on – _as has always been the case_ – when Josh okays something, leave it at that,” he said sharply.

Satisfied that Lou looked effectively reproached, he started toward his office again, not bothering to see if his assistant was keeping up with his hurried pace. “Jake, I need my wife on line one,” he called over his shoulder. “Then get me a dozen yellow roses and make sure they’re here before lunch.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Josh ends up in the peace-keeping delegation and how Donna feels about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a hiatus and a half for me, but an early Christmas present. Sorry to those of you waiting for another chapter. I had some pressing medical issues to take care of, but now I'm back, armed with several new chapters and hope to keep you guys intrigued and entertained. 
> 
> As always, a huge thank you to my betas afiakate and spinninginfinity for their input on this story. I feel a lot better posting after their eyes have scanned through everything, but mistakes are still on me. Hope you all enjoy.

_7 September, 2008_

She heard the sound of his keys in the door over the soft plink of the piano on NPR’s evening jazz hour.

“You home?” came a shout from the living room.

“Uh-huh, in the kitchen. Hey, can you throw any of your whites you have on in the wash? I just put a load in but it’s not full,” she called over her shoulder as she worked the stir-fry around the sizzling wok.

He didn’t answer, but she heard the metal-on-metal thunk as he closed the washing machine lid a few minutes later. She looked up from the stove, giving him a smile as he padded into the kitchen in an old Harvard t-shirt and shorts.

“How was work?”

He came up behind her, encircling her waist with his arms, and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Hey,” he said softly, ignoring the question and tickling her ear with his breath.

She grinned and half-turned in his arms, kissing him, letting her lips linger on his for a long moment. “This is a welcome surprise,” she mumbled, finally pulling away. She gave him another quick kiss and turned back to the food. “You must’ve had a good day.”

He shook his head, letting the tip of his nose brush the back of her head before planting another light kiss there. “No. I just missed you. How was your trip?”

She covered one of his arms with hers, holding it where it was draped just below her ribcage, as she added some water chestnuts and baby corn to the mix. “It was good – the teachers’ union was a lot more welcoming than we anticipated given Helen’s support of the reform bill.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course. I used my wit and my charm.”

“That’s my girl.”

“You want chicken or beef?” she asked, pulling away and reaching for the refrigerator door.

“Doesn’t matter. Chicken, I guess. Hey, Donna?”

“Hmm?”

His lips swept over her sweet-smelling hair as he pressed them to the side of her neck. “I’m sorry,” he whispered after a moment, resuming his hold on her, but keeping his arms loose so she could move as she cooked. 

She paused mid-motion, brows furrowed slightly, but she held onto the slight smile his presence automatically gave her. “For what?”

He stopped the ministrations with his mouth and rested his forehead on her shoulder. “Everything,” he mumbled, wrapping his arms more tightly around her, hugging her against him. 

She let him stay that way for a long moment, relishing the warm hard length of his body pressed against hers. It wasn’t anything she’d felt in almost a month and she missed it. Perhaps her being away had given him some time to reflect, just as she had over the last four days. 

He had always worked his best magic when he was running on all cylinders, plowing forward with an almost singular goal in mind. Of his past triumphs, many had been swift, conquering, and he’d celebrated with his hands held high, fists clenched in victory. She’d been there for most of them, bolstering him with facts and figures and threats of world demise when his ostensibly tireless ego sometimes faltered.

But since the handgun bill had crumbled – since the high school shooting in Barrington, really – he’d spent much of his time second guessing his decisions, doubting his convictions and reigning himself in. She had no idea what to do, how to encourage him to press on, especially when the president basically had him on a leash, relegating him to managing social functions and shuttering him away any time real politicking came into the picture.

She’d spent much of the last three weeks torn between being resentful at Josh’s seeming anger toward her and being indignant on his behalf. It was exhausting her physically and emotionally and even the First Lady had commented on it. Donna had fumbled around a half truth, but when Helen had pressed for answers, she’d explained what had been going on between the two men and Helen had sighed with resignation.

She confessed that her husband had displayed many of the same characteristics as of late and could only surmise that his frustration with the way his presidency had played out thus far was rearing its head in any way possible. Josh’s foul-up – and they could both agree it was an egregious mistake – was the proverbial straw. They had run on an ambitious platform, but without the aid of full Congressional support, it was nearly impossible to get any measure with teeth passed. 

Helen had gone so far as to offer to talk to Matt about lightening up, but Donna had staunchly refused, shuddering to think how Josh would react if he knew she’d gone behind his back to complain. And in the end, as much as Helen tried to support her husband’s agendas where it was possible, they both knew it was best to keep East and West Wing politics separate.

But even in light of all of that, something about Josh’s sudden warmth after weeks of distance seemed… _off_.

She switched the burner on low and shifted in his arms, turning to face him fully. Before she could speak, he covered her mouth with his, pulling her into a soft and luxurious kiss that she returned with fervor. Her hands automatically rose to his neck, fingers finding their way into his hair, her thumbs brushing over his ears. His warm palms settled over her hips, squeezing them as he pulled her as close to him as possible.

They broke apart breathlessly, foreheads resting against one another’s before Josh’s mouth began drifting down her jaw line. Donna’s arms went around his shoulders and her eyelids fluttered shut. She indulged herself for a long moment, enjoying the sensation of his stubbled cheek brushing against her throat, before forcing herself to return to what prompted this interlude.

“Mmm…Josh?”

“Hnh?” he hummed against her neck.

“What’s going on?”

Gradually, he slowed, nuzzling just behind her ear and planting a final kiss before he stepped back, gaze focused somewhere over her left shoulder. He kept his hands on her hips as he spoke, his fingers tightening reflexively as he stumbled around a hoarse explanation.

“Nothing, I’ve just…I’ve been thinking. I snapped at you the other night and I never apologized and even before that…I’ve been an ass to you and I’m sorry. I really am, Donna,” he finished, finally catching her gaze.

She took his face between her hands and pressed her lips to his, giving him a soft kiss, sighing when she pulled away. “You don’t have to apologize,” she whispered, a slight tremor in her voice as her thumbs brushed over his cheeks. “I’m not mad anymore, I’m really not. You’ve been wound up for weeks and I felt like it was coming to a head. I wanted us to cut it off before it reached that point.”

She reached down for his right hand and rubbed along the faded white scars he’d given himself seven years ago.

“Maybe suggesting Stanley was overkill,” she continued, forehead resting against his once more as they both studied their fingers intertwining, “but…I just worry. It’s hard to see you like that and not be able to do anything to help. And I _wanna_ help, Josh…I just don’t know how always.”

He squeezed her hand, prompting her to look up. “You _do_ help.”

“By nagging?” she asked, her pitch high as she fought to keep control of her voice. “Getting you even more worked up than you already are?”

Josh pulled her into a tight hug, sighing heavily as he explained, “Donna, I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not…you weren’t the reason. You never are; I hope you know that.”

She nodded against his neck, not trusting her voice at the moment and content to let him hold her.

“You okay?” he asked after a few moments, rocking back and forth as his hand smoothed over her back.

She nodded once more before leaning back, her face sticky with the tears that had escaped. “Yeah,” she answered, sniffing and giving him an embarrassed smile.

“You want me to finish this up?” he asked, gesturing to the stir-fry that was beginning to smoke.

“ _Oh_. Yeah, would you? I wanna go wash up.”

He let her go with a kiss to her temple and began finishing up their dinner. By the time she was done in the bathroom, he had the food dished out and wine poured. She gave him another sheepish smile as she sat opposite him and they eased into conversation about her trip and the First Lady’s plans for the coming quarter. 

They had finished supper and were both in the kitchen, Josh washing dishes and Donna tucking into a carton of mint chocolate chip that was almost finished.

“So…Russia and China have agreed to a round-table in Kazakhstan,” he began cautiously, training his focus on the plate he was rinsing.

“Really?” Donna asked rhetorically, eyebrows arched in surprise. “That’s great news. When?”

“Delegation’s scheduled to leave Sunday afternoon.”

She came up beside him, leaning back against the counter next to the sink. “But…I thought Secretary Vinick was in Ethiopia with the AU next week? Did he cancel?” she asked thoughtfully, holding up a bite of ice cream for him.

He shook his head, giving her a tight smile. “No.”

“Then who’s…?” Donna trailed off, spoon suspended midair as realization dawned on her.

***

_7 September, 2008; Earlier that day…_

“I leave _tonight_ , Mr. President, I can’t postpone this trip – it’s already been announced.”

The Secretary of State sat on the edge of the sofa in the Oval Office, hands out, pleading his case. “The leaders are waiting – on a conference _we_ implored them to arrange. That’s not to mention this mess brewing in the Sudan, the _drought_ in Ethiopia. Backing out on the AU sends a bad signal.”

President Santos, leaning back in the armchair, fingers steepled over his chest, nodded. “I agree.”

“We could send Harris…?”

“Absolutely not,” the president said firmly. “He just buried his mother. I won’t ask him to cut that leave short.”

“With the Deputy out, what about Vice President Baker?” Sam suggested.

The president shook his head. “He’s still on a no-fly since his surgery.”

Secretary Vinick laughed derisively. “This is a perfect storm of epic proportions. A city full of politicians and no one to sit at the table.”

“If I went, it would send a strong message we’re serious about reaching a swift agreement.”

Vinick was shaking his head before the president finished speaking. “Matt, even if we got Secret Service approval, there’s no way we can arrange a presidential delegation on such short notice, on top of the fact that neither Russia nor China are sending anyone above Cabinet-level.”

Sam rifled through his notes, pausing when he hit a potential suggestion. “What if we – ”

“I could go.”

Three shocked faces looked up, trading glances between one another before coming to rest on the Chief of Staff.

“I can go,” Josh repeated when no one replied. “I’ll represent the White House, get things started. You’ll be finished Wednesday right?” he directed at the Secretary. “You can get on a plane, be there by nightfall. I’ve seen the proposed schedule – Tuesday’s travel. It’ll just be preliminaries Wednesday anyway and I can keep in touch with you via phone or e-mail.”

Vinick cast a speculative glimpse at the president before continuing. “Josh, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t domestic policy more your forte?”

Josh leaned forward in his seat, eager to prove his point. “Yes, but out of everyone in this room, who’s actually sat in on a peace talk?”

“Josh,” the president started, “I think what Arnie’s saying – ” 

“All due respect, sir, I know what Secretary Vinick is saying,” he countered, deferentially but with an edge to his voice. “But I was at Camp David; I co-mediated sessions on occupation and territorial return, and renouncement of terrorism, not to _mention_ I’ve been involved with this thing since the outset.”

Vinick shook his head doubtfully. “Tact is key with these people, Josh.”

Josh took a moment before answering, breathing deeply and fixing a pointed gaze on the older man. “I’m aware of that, Mr. Secretary,” he countered in a measured tone before turning to the president. “I can do this, sir.”

Santos responded not with words, but with a steady gaze, considering his chief advisor for a long moment before stating, “Josh, Sam? Gimme a minute with the Secretary, would you?”

\---

“This is what has to be done.”

“But why _you_? Can’t they wait a few days? Vinick’ll be finished in Addis by – ”

“We’re not calling the shots on this, Donna,” he argued tiredly. 

They’d been going around in circles for the last ten minutes, neither one of them willing to concede. 

“We’ve been invited and we have to be there when they say we need to be there. He’s taking a direct flight – he’ll be there on Wednesday. I’ll get things started so he can step in when he arrives.”

“But you’ll still be there.”

“Well, _yeah_ , but – ”

“It’s _dangerous_.”

“We’ll have a security escort. There’ll be guards. They – ”

“There were guards in Rosslyn; there were guards in Gaza. Joshua, it’s a _war_ zone,” she snapped, turning on her heels and disappearing into the living room. 

He stayed behind for a moment, collecting himself as he returned to the sink and let the soapy water drain out. He flicked on the garbage disposal, letting it run several seconds longer than necessary before switching it off and wiping his hands on a dishtowel.

When he stepped into the living room, Donna was wedged into the corner of the couch staring into the empty fireplace with her legs tucked beneath her, effectively ignoring him.

“Things have been calm,” he started tentatively, talking over her when she began to balk. “Donna, it’s been at a stand-still for _months_ , nothing’s happening, it’s a money pit, and if the Chinese and Russians are willing to sit down and negotiate, don’t you think we have a responsibility to at least _show up_?”

She said nothing to that and they were both silent, the room heavy with pent-up tension. He started toward the couch, but stopped himself, turning an about face and beginning to pace.

“So that’s what tonight was about?” she asked after a moment, causing him to stop mid-stride and give her a confused look. 

“What do you mean?”

“You – being contrite and affectionate, hoping it would soften the blow?”

His shock at her suggestion plain on his face. “Don’t say that. You know I’d never manipulate you like that.”

“Maybe not, but that’s what it feels like,” she responded shakily, sniffing loudly as she struggled to keep the tears at bay.

“I don’t wanna argue,” he said wearily, hands extended in supplication.

“Well, I’m sorry, but we’re gonna!” she shouted, shifting her feet so they were planted on the floor in front of her. She ran her hands through her hair then suddenly pushed herself up, needing to move and release some of the nervous energy coursing through her. 

“Four soldiers were killed last week and two peacekeepers were kidnapped. Do I need to call up Toby to talk to you about ‘tempting fate’? If I thought for a _second_ you’d considered your safety over getting back in the president’s good graces – ”

“Of course I have!” he fired back defiantly. “Of _course_ I’ve considered that. I’ve thought about it all day, but…”

“But _what_?” she demanded, hands on her hips.

“I wanna be able to do my job!” he yelled, turning to face her as he pleaded. “I _need_ to be able to do my job. Donna, I _need_ –”

He sighed loudly and resumed his pacing, sucking in several deep breaths as he tried to compose himself. 

“What?” she asked when it was apparent he wasn’t going to continue without prompting.

He stopped abruptly and stood deathly still a few feet in front of her. It was an unnatural look for Joshua Lyman, man of constant motion.

“Josh, what is it?” she prodded, consciously softening her voice despite the adrenaline coursing through her. She took a step forward, narrowing the space between them. “What do you need?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it quickly, swallowing hard as he faced her, his eyes red and full. He shrugged, shaking his head helplessly. “I need to do my job and I…I _really_ need you to tell me you think I can do this.”

\---

She sat down on the arm of the overstuffed chair in the guest bedroom where he’d set up shop with his paperwork. “Did you get any sleep?” she asked softly, running her fingers through his curly hair, smoothing out the places where it still stood on end. 

She knew that he’d dozed a little after they’d finished a few hours earlier, but he seemed to be wide-awake now. Their argument tabled for the moment, the sex had started out slow, conciliatory, but had quickly merged into something frantic, nearly combative, as if each had something to prove. She was already feeling a little sore – something she knew was bound to increase by morning – and she could see a few angry scratches peeking out from the neck of his t-shirt, evidence of the fingernails she’d dug into his back as he’d driven into her.

“A little. I gotta finish this report, then go over the briefing packet State sent me. We have a meeting on it at nine tomorrow and I’m not where I need to be.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

He glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand, then up to her, and she was struck by how deep the dark circles under his eyes went. “You need to get some sleep – I’m sure you’re worn out from the flight.”

“Just the flight?”

He gave her a tired but lecherous grin and she kissed the top of his head as she slipped off the chair and skimmed the various open files he had scattered over the small table, the floor, and edge of the bed. 

“Did I…you sure you’re okay?” he asked after a moment, a tinge of worry coloring his tone.

She smiled. “More than. And let me help you – my clock’s off from all the time changes and I took a nap on the way home.”

“Really?”

She nodded and he gave her a grateful sigh.

“You wanna take a look at that brief then? Make a few notes?” he offered, tipping his head toward a thick green folder, its contents already askew.

“You want index cards?” she teased as she clambered onto the double bed and spread the paperwork out in front of her.

“Work your magic for me, Donnatella.”

They were silent for the next hour, the room quiet except for the occasional scratch of a pen against paper or the turning of a page. It had gotten considerably lighter as the pre-dawn sun gradually illuminated the room when, with a yawn, Josh closed the file he was working on and stood up, twisting his shoulders from side to side as he groaned through a stretch. The sound of his back popping echoed in the space around them; Donna cringed.

Josh’s moan of satisfaction blended into a laugh and he made a show of flexing his fingers then bending them at awkward angles, cracking his knuckles.

Donna squealed at the noise and gave him a warning. “ _Josh_.”

“You need anything from the kitchen?” he asked, grinning.

“No. And I’m not tying your shoes for you when you’re old and riddled with arthritis,” she called as he stepped into the hall.

“I don’t need you for that – I’ll convert to Velcro,” he countered before closing the bathroom door.

When he came back with a bottle of water from the kitchen, Donna had laid her papers out in front of her. She was leaning against the headboard, a pensive look on her face.

He took a sip. “What is it?”

She looked up at him blankly, then processed what he’d just asked her and shook her head. “It’s silly.”

“No, really, tell me,” he said gently, climbing into the bed with her. He shoved aside the decorative pillows she’d insisted on buying last fall and sat down next to her, hip pressed against hers.

She sighed and gestured to the paperwork in front of her. “After reading all of this and knowing what I know about what’s gone on…I really feel like something bad is going to happen. I know it’s dumb, but…”

“It’s not dumb,” he said quietly, tightening the cap on his water and tossing it to the foot of the bed. “I know what you mean, but – ”

“You feel it, too?” she interrupted, her voice a mix between panicked and hopeful.

He gathered her in his arms and rested his cheek on top of her head, stroking her hair as he explained himself. “No, but…I understand why you’re worried and, Donna, this isn’t going to be like Gaza; this isn’t…it’s not that.”

“You don’t know that. You can’t know that for sure.”

“Honey, anything could happen when I walk out that door every day. And as sick as it makes me, the same goes for you.”

“It’s not the same and you know it,” she argued plaintively, draping her arm across his stomach and pulling herself closer to him. “I really wish you wouldn’t go.”

“ _Donna –_ ”

“Josh, _please_ \- ”

“Don’t do this,” he begged.

“Don’t do _what_?”

“Tell me not to go.”

She pushed away from him, embers sparking in her eyes. “Because you’ll do it anyway?”

He shook his head and took her hand in his, turning it over gently and lacing his fingers through hers. He rubbed his thumb over her palm as he whispered, “Because I _won’t_.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into life for Donna and Josh while he was missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay between chapters. I was tinkering with how I wanted my next few installments arranged. It's short, but will have the next one up soon.
> 
> As always, a big thanks to my lovely betas and sounding boards afiakate and spinninginfinity. You guys help me so much! 
> 
> WARNING: contains mild descriptions of captivity.

_29 October, 2009_

“Hey,” Sam said brightly, entering her expansive office after a quick rap of his knuckles on her doorframe.

Donna looked up from the laptop where she’d been furiously typing away and gave him a small smile, but said nothing.

“It’s after twelve – I was gonna go get some lunch. You wanna…?” he asked, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb.

She managed an apologetic look as she shook her head and returned her focus to her computer screen. “Thanks, but…I’m not that hungry.”

Sam stepped a little further into the office, hands resting on the back of the pair of tasteful leather armchairs in front of her desk. “You sure? It’s actually nice out. I thought we could take a walk, go to that new little place on H?”

“I – you know, I’m just kind of busy with this and – ”

“Oh, yeah – of course,” Sam covered quickly. 

She continued working, but could see him out of her peripheral vision as he examined her spacious office with what appeared to be great interest. 

He was leaning side to side, shifting his weight from one foot to the other when he asked, “Is that a new painting?”

She glanced up and followed his line of sight to the framed watercolor hanging above one of the shorter bookshelves. She shook her head. “No.”

“Really? I’ve never noticed it before.”

“I’ve had it a while,” she explained distractedly.

“Oh.” He took in the peaceful meadow with a serene smile. “It’s nice.”

“Thanks.”

“Whatcha working on?” he asked after a moment, leaning toward her, balancing himself on the heavy backs of the armchairs.

She sighed as she pushed herself away from her desk a little, resigned to the fact that he wasn’t leaving in the near future. “Revising the First Lady’s schedule for this weekend. We had to make some changes now that the venue for the show has been changed.”

“The photograph display?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t know they’d moved it.”

“They did.”

“It should be interesting. I’m glad you told me – I’m looking forward to seeing it.”

“Okay.”

“I’m a huge Korean War buff – it’s one of the unsung conflicts of our time.”

“Oh, is it?” she snapped.

He waited a beat, then looked away, shielding the unmasked concern in his blue eyes. 

Donna opened her mouth to apologize, but couldn’t muster the words. It was ultimately for the best; they would’ve only sounded hollow because, quite truthfully, she wasn’t that sorry. 

But she really hadn’t meant to lash out at Sam. Sam, her last ally, it often seemed, remaining on the side of the table that mattered. They kept up pretenses, but as far as anyone else was concerned, Josh had been killed a year ago, his body dumped unceremoniously in some dark corner of one of the hundreds of thousands of square miles of conflict zone.

She sighed quietly and leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples between her forefinger and thumb. “I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean that. Not to you, at least.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said quickly, flashing her a bright smile. “It’s not a big deal. Hey, listen – you sure you don’t want anything to eat? We could go to the Mess? We don’t have to go that café if you don’t feel like going outside. But I should tell you, I wasn’t exaggerating earlier – it _really_ is a nice day.”

Her throat tightened suddenly and she had to swallow hard against the solid mass rising up through her esophagus. This was why she hadn’t wanted to talk to him – but Sam being Sam, he hadn’t noticed. Or he _had_ and decided to press on. She’d always assumed it was the latter because how could someone be that smart and not be able to read the simplest of social cues?

“It’s his birthday,” she forced out after a silence that stretched toward uncomfortable. 

Sam deflated at that, his shoulders dropping and his smile sliding slowly from his face. “I know,” he answered, voice quiet, almost reverential. 

“I wonder if _he_ knows? It’s almost tomorrow there,” she added, shaking her head with a humorless smile. She stared at the computer screen blankly for a long minute before blinking hard and coming back into focus. She sniffed loudly and straightened in her chair, but, despite her best efforts to look poised and engaged, her eyes betrayed her disconnection with the words in front of her.

Glancing at Sam, she saw the pity she worked so hard to avoid around the office and felt the heat rush to her eyes.

Despite that, she continued absently, fingers brushing over the lacquered wood frame surrounding a picture of her and Josh from one of the 2007 inaugural balls. “It’s almost midnight and thirty-one degrees right now,” she whispered. “He must be so cold.”

\-----

He was freezing.

He wiggled his toes, desperate to maintain any feeling beyond the pins and needles coursing up through his ankles and into his bent and swelling knees. His thighs were inflamed, burning from the inside out and trembling with effort to hold himself upright. If he tumbled over, all his weight would fall onto his already strained shoulders – something he’d learned hours ago.

Or what felt like hours ago. He had no idea anymore.

He never should have run. This – anything that came after – it wasn’t worth the futile stab at freedom.

He shifted his head, stretching his neck a little and trying to ignore the growing panic pulsing in his chest at not being able to move, at being tied into such an awkward position, squatting with his arms joined behind his back at the elbows, wrenched tightly toward the ceiling by a rope. He’d never been claustrophobic before, but this wasn’t the same as a small closet or an elevator. He literally couldn’t move and it didn’t matter if there were no walls holding him in – the paralysis was suffocating.

As he thought about it, he groaned, the noise practically reverberating off the chilly concrete walls, like a shout amid the silence. He froze at his unexpected outburst, ears trained for the noise of heavy boots rushing down the hallway to his room.

Unless he had been screaming for them to stop or divulging outdated military secrets, they didn’t like any noise; he’d learned that very early. 

Several minutes stretched by before he was satisfied they hadn’t noticed and he settled back into the gentle rocking rhythm he’d established earlier, measuring his breathing in a staggered pattern. He remembered from being shot that breathing so shallowly wasn’t good for what he suspected were broken ribs, but there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t sit or stand, making it impossible to straighten his legs. His naked torso was pressed firmly against his thighs and any extra pressure sent a white-hot bolt of lightening crashing through his chest and up the length of his spine. Then he would start coughing and, tied the way he was, he’d fall like the last time and no one would come for him and he’d be stuck there and – 

So instead of falling, he kept rocking…kept breathing, short and shallow.

\----


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donna prepares for the day she's waited almost two years for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in under two weeks? That has to be a record for me. Hope everyone enjoys it. 
> 
> And thank you, as always, to my lovely betas and sounding boards, afiakate and spinninginfinity.

_1 July, 2010; present day_

She sneezes once, twice as the dust motes are released from their holding pattern beneath the bed. She bats them away from her face and continues reaching as far back as she can with the Swiffer.

The apartment smells like Pledge and Pine-Sol, a lemon scented cocoon in the heart of Georgetown.

_Josh is coming home tomorrow._

Her heart leaps at the thought, but when her eyes well up yet again, she continues sweeping through the tears. Their apartment needs to be cleaned from the top down, something she’s sorely neglected over the last twenty-odd months. Simple things like dusting and changing out the curtains and wiping down the windows hadn’t seemed important; she hadn’t noticed. And it’s not anything she cares to examine too deeply.

Once all the dust has been gathered, she straightens, resting her hands on her thighs as she takes in the room around her.

The bed is in the same position against the wall opposite the French doors. The armchair from the living room takes up the far corner she’d moved it to when he’d been shot; it’s next to the antique wardrobe and dresser she found at an auction nearly three years ago. His suits still hang in the closet; his t-shirts and jeans fill the drawers. His razor sits next to the sink and his shampoo is next to hers in the shower caddy.

Everything is the same except the bed linens.

She’d considered moving, but it felt like giving up, admitting that Josh really was gone; like she’d be losing one of the only pieces of him she had left.

She’s glad she didn’t. She can’t imagine bringing him home to a place he wouldn’t recognize.

_Josh is coming home tomorrow._

No matter how many times she repeats it, it doesn’t seem real.

But it is. 

She glances into the dining area and sees the white paper bags on the table. One is filled with medication – antibiotics and pain pills, sleep aids and vitamins – and notes on his condition, restrictions on what he can eat and drink, what he can do. There’s an identical one beside it with gauze and creams and ice packs and tape. Next to them is a short stack of papers, her own research she’d done once she’d been given the report on what she could expect.

He was supposed to be home yesterday – the only reason she hasn’t already flown to Germany to see him with her own eyes, hold his hand and tell him she loves him, that she never stopped. But his temperature had spiked and they’d put him on another round of fluids and IV antibiotics. It’s under control now though – and he’s coming _home_ in the morning.

Her palms are suddenly sweating and she’s wiping them on her jeans when her cell rings. With a tired huff, she pushes herself up from the hardwood floor, grabbing an overflowing bag of laundry on her way into the living room. She picks up the phone from the arm of the couch, answering as she opens the folding closet door and dumps the dirty clothes out.

“Hey, you,” she answers softly.

“Donna!” 

She smiles warmly, having missed that genuine spark of enthusiasm in Sam’s voice.

“I just saw the First Lady and she said you were at home.”

She pulls a handful of colors from the pile and places them into the washer, twisting the dial to get the water started. “Yeah. I’m trying to work from the apartment today. There’s just…I’ve got a lot to get through here before…”

She still can’t make herself say it out loud. It’s like she’ll jinx everything, like it’s all an illusion waiting to shatter. Her eyes drift cautiously to the dining room table once more.

The bags are still there.

“Is there anything I can do? Anything you need me to pick up? Val’s in court this afternoon, but she said she can come over in the morning, or we can both come this evening – anything you need.”

She smiles again, adding the detergent and closing the lid before moving toward the kitchen, listening as he continues talking. She makes a detour and picks up the litter pan in the hall, prompting Tango, her orange tabby, to wind around her legs, nearly tripping her with his eager affection. “Thank you, Sam – that’s sweet – but I know you’re both busy and it’s nothing I can’t handle, at least for the next few hours. Josh’s mom will be here tonight.”

“How is she?” he asks, his voice dropping a few notches. “I haven’t talked to her in a few months.”

She sets the litter pan on the floor by the sink, opening the cabinet to pull out the waste bin, and manages a small laugh. “I think her disposition has dramatically improved over the last seventy-two hours.”

“Well…you know we’re here – this isn’t something you have to do alone. I mean, I know you won’t be alone now – and I hope you didn’t _feel_ alone before – but…you know what I mean.”

She feels heat behind her eyes and blinks quickly, desperate to maintain her composure. There’s too much to be done and she can’t afford a breakdown right now. “I do. I do, and thank you.”

“So…look, I know he’ll need time to settle in and there’ll be doctors’ appointments and debriefings and all that, but…when he’s up to it…” he trails off nervously.

“Of course,” she says softly – and she means it. 

“I don’t wanna crowd him or push. And I won’t bug you about it or show up on your doorstep, but…whenever he’s ready,” he continues, still intent on arguing his case, though it’s unnecessary at this point. She can’t imagine the last two years without him and if anyone’s suffered through this crisis near as much as she and Ruth Lyman, it’s Sam Seaborn.

“I’ll let you know.”

“I just…I don’t wanna crowd him,” he repeats, his voice carrying a noticeable waver. “I don’t wanna…I know he’ll need space – _you’ll_ need space – but I didn’t want you to think I didn’t care, that I wasn’t interested in seeing him, because I _am_. I just wanna give you both the time you need.”

“Sam, I could _never_ think that. You’ll be the first person we call.”

“Okay. Okay, all right then,” he breathes, the relief in his voice unmistakable. 

She gives him a moment to collect his bearings, but before she can wind up the conversation, he asks, “So – tomorrow morning? They taking him to GW?”

“Bethesda. It’ll be easier to contain with the media. There’s going to be a press conference in the next few days, but they want to keep things as quiet as possible until then.”

“It’s been pretty hush-hush on this side. I think the president is worried about it seeming like he’s exploiting all of this for the election.”

Donna gave a noncommittal ‘hmm’ and Sam took the cue.

“Okay,” he says with an air of finality. “Okay then. You’ll call if you need anything?”

“I will.”

“All right. Oh, give Ruth a hug for me. If she’s free or needs a break, tell her lunch is on me.”

She smiles again and repeats, “I will, Sam. Bye.”

“Bye, Donna.”

She hits ‘End’ with a wistful sigh, but before she can process the sentiments behind Sam’s words, her phone chirps to life again. Her heart leaps for the briefest of moments when a familiar picture flashes on the screen, fearing what could have prompted this call.

“CJ?” she asks after bringing it to her ear.

“ _Donna_.”

The tone of her voice confirms what Donna suspected and she immediately wonders how many others could have found out.

“Is it true?” CJ asks without preamble.

Donna turns and sits on a padded stool, empty cat litter pan forgotten on the floor. If CJ knows, then it’s likely she got it from a reporter. From there, whether it’s speculation or not, it’s only a matter of time before the story breaks on a major outlet before they’re ready to handle it. 

“Is…how did you find out?” she asks quietly, swallowing and willing her voice not to shake.

“One of Danny’s buddies at the _Post_ called this morning, fishing for a confirmation. Someone from AP stationed in Ayaguz heard something.”

_Damn it._

Donna’s silence must confirm it for her, because CJ’s voice is soft when she asks, “Is he okay? When is he coming home?”

“Tomorrow,” she says, a tremulous smile spreading across her lips. 

“And he’s all right?” CJ repeats, this time her voice a little more urgent.

“I talked to him for a few minutes the other day, but he was kinda out of it. He’s…he’s a little banged up they said, but…well, he’s got all of his limbs,” she finishes, smile gone as hot tears finally spring to her eyes.

“Oh, Donna…”

She gathers herself with a deep breath and clears her throat. “CJ, not a word – _please_.”

“Of course,” comes the sober reply.

“I’m sorry, that was…this has been so clandestine. We were planning on telling everyone in a few days, but the last thing we need is reporters camped out on the steps when he comes home,” she explains unnecessarily. “It probably won’t even matter – if your friend knows, then others will, too, and then the frenzy starts.”

“We understand completely. Donna, do you need _anything_? I’ll be home in less than a week – I will take the _first_ flight out.”

She reaches for the pile of magazines and leaflets on the island, idly closing one of the pamphlets on discount cookbooks she’d been reading earlier that morning. “I’m okay for now. Josh’s mom is coming tonight; Sam and his wife have been great. But…I appreciate the offer. I know Josh will, too.” 

“I mean it. Danny and I both will be there. You say the word.”

“I think…I think we’ll just try to lay low for a while. I’m not sure how he’s…how he’ll…I just…I don’t know,” she sighs, her free hand flopping helplessly into her lap. “I’m trying to prepare for everything.”

A bizarre noise in the background gives her pause.

“Was that a… _sheep_?”

“Close. A goat. Apparently there's a difference.”

“Where _are_ you?”

“We just crossed into Ghana and had to pull over for…something, I don’t know. It’s hard to understand the driver – he’s a sweet guy, but he’s lacking in the English department. I would’ve called earlier but my phone didn’t work in Burkina Faso.”

The cacophony at the end of the other line suddenly becomes clear and she wonders how she’d missed the racket just a few moments ago. “How is the roadwork going?” 

CJ exhales good-naturedly into the phone and Donna can envision the derisive smile on the other woman’s face when she speaks. 

“If you’d asked me six months ago how it was going, I would’ve said it _wasn’t_. At all. But apparently this is the normal pace. Huh? Okay, just a second. Hey, Donna?”

“Yeah?”

“I think we’re loading back up. Here’s – got someone who wants to say hi.”

“Hey, Donna!”

Donna switches the phone to her other ear and slides down from the stool, a smile back on her face. “Hey, Danny.”

“Tell me my buddy’s not smokin’ crack.”

“He’s not,” she answers warmly, closing the cabinet below the sink with her foot at the same time she’s pulling a pan liner from the shelf above.

“Damn,” Danny breathes. “How is he?”

“All things considered? I guess okay – he’s coming home tomorrow, so I’ll know more then.”

“That’s…that’s great news, Donna. I’m happy – for both of you. Give him a hug for me, okay? Huh? One for CJ, too. Unless you want us out there before then, I’m buying him the _biggest_ steak he’s ever seen when we get to DC in September.”

Donna laughs at that, knowing Danny’s serious. “Okay, Danny. Have a safe trip.”

“Thanks. And you’ll let us know if you need anything?”

“Of course.”

She smiles warmly as she hangs up the call, relieved that the offer still stood, even after she’d pushed so many away.

***


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to my two betas, spinninginfinity & Afiakate. In addition to silly grammar, they've been wonderful sounding boards throughout this drawn out process. Thank you, ladies!
> 
> I brought out the wibbles for this one, but hopefully not too gratuitously. Any mistakes are on me. I love hearing what you think!

_2 July, 2010; present day_

She allows herself a moment to breathe. He’s finally resting, his fidgeting temporarily stilled under Ruth’s warm palm covering his knee.

He fought sleep for the last two hours, insisting he was fine, that he wanted to talk to both of them and he’d done nothing _but_ sleep for days now. His eyes danced, unable to focus on any one thing, and his speech was hurried, thoughts almost disconnected at times. It scared her at first, but the doctor assured her it wasn’t out of the ordinary – between the fever from the numerous minor infections and the various medications he was on, not to mention the other stressors he was experiencing, his behavior would be off-kilter. He just needed to rest.

A nurse came in and discretely suggested a light sedative, but Donna couldn’t bear the thought of forcing him to sleep when he was struggling so hard against it. Eventually, he wore himself out, trailing off mid-sentence just a few minutes ago.

She brushes her fingers gently over the top of his head and her heart clenches when he starts at her touch, eyelids fluttering then falling closed once again. She remembers a time when he would’ve turned his head toward her palm, unconsciously seeking her touch. His hair is peppered with gray now and much shorter from the quick clean up he’d been given at the base in Ayaguz. It feels dry, almost brittle under her touch. There’s a bandage over his right eyebrow and another taped awkwardly around the shell of his ear. He has a few scratches that disappear beneath the collar of his gown, the blood dried and crusted, ominously dark against his unnatural pallor. The skin around his neck is loose and the angular lines of his thinned face are pronounced. 

He looks so much older than he did two years ago.

She remembers at the last moment to keep her eyes trained on his face and away from the rest of his body. Though a blanket covers his feet and ankles, she knows there’s a pair of dressings that match the ones wrapped around his wrists. She can guess what they’re from, but her mind constructs a bubble around the half-formed thought, preventing her from finishing it. 

Instead, she runs her hand along the back of his arm, careful of the bruises and scrapes. From what little Josh has been able to string together for her, she knows he was sleepingin a small room when there was some sort of explosion and that a wall fell over. Most of the debris landed several feet away, but he had been struck by some of the rocks and mortar and his right side was now littered with contusions. 

“Donna,” he mumbles, head tossing back and forth a few times.

She jumps at the noise, catching Ruth’s eye before grasping at the hand nearest to her. It’s jerking of its own volition, and she squeezes it gently, whispering his name as he kicks his feet against the footboard.

“Josh, it’s okay.”

“ _NO!_ ”

He snatches his hand from hers, rocketing forward as he wakes with a start, obviously disoriented. His focus locks on his mother who’s seated at the foot of his bed, her mouth suspended open in disbelief or horror, Donna doesn’t know which. 

She repeats his name and he turns to face her, eyes widening further as his mouth struggles to form words.

“Oh, God,” he finally manages, a groan of sheer panic working its way up from deep in his gut. “God, no, please.”

“It’s okay. Sweetheart, you’re all right.”

He’s shaking his head as she speaks, a refusal to believe obviously outweighing what his brain is trying to process as truth. 

“You’re safe. You’re _home_ ,” she assures once more, her voice just this side of breaking. She has to hold it together right now – if she falls apart now, Ruth is going to lose it and neither of them can afford that. She tries to stand, but her knees feel like rubber. There are shrill noises coming from the machinery he’s hooked to, echoing vitals that are spiking and she finds herself glancing toward the door, expecting a team of nurses to come flying in at any moment.

“Joshua, you’re _home_ ,” Ruth insists, pleading for him to listen. She’s standing now, leaning over the bed toward him, rubbing his knee as she explains, “You’re in America – we’re at the Walter Reed Hospital in Maryland.”

“No, but…wh-where are you?” he pants, his eyes dancing back-and-forth between Donna and his mother. Sweat is trickling down both sides of his face.

“I’m here, too,” Donna says quickly, remembering from the times after the shooting how important it had been to orient him when he’d woken up like this. “We’re both here, with you, at the hospital, me and your mom.”

“No,” he argues weakly. 

“ _Yes_. You’re in the hospital, Josh. We’re here with you.”

“The hospital?” he repeats, letting the words roll over his tongue with an edge of disbelief. His head is bobbing, exhaustion overtaking worry. “I’m here.”

“You’re here with us in America, Josh,” Donna assures him, squeezing his hand harder now that she knows it isn’t going to hurt him. 

“Okay,” he sighs after a moment. He’s unsteady as he’s sitting up, swaying back and forth, catching himself just before he falls over to one side or the other. “Okay.”

His head lolls dangerously to one side and Donna stands then, her hands on his shoulders as she and Ruth ease him back down to the bed. 

A pair of nurses enters the room, one moving to the machinery to stop the noise, the other to Josh’s side, checking the various tubes and connections he’s hooked up to. 

“He wake up?” she asks over her shoulder.

“Yes,” Donna sniffs as she steps away from the bed, giving the woman room. “He, um…he was a little disoriented.”

“That’s okay,” the nurse whispers, both to her and to Josh it seems, as she places her palm on his forehead. “He still feels a little hot. I’ll check his temp.”

Donna nods quickly and watches as the nurse adjusts the drip on the IV bag hanging above the bed and reconnects the leads he’d pulled off. She pulls a thermometer from one of the pockets on her floral-printed scrub shirt and touches it to his ear.

“101.8,” she says quietly. “It’s coming down.”

She checks the IV in the back of his hand again before straightening his blankets and slipping quietly out of the room with the other nurse.

Ruth is standing by the window, staring through the cracks in the blinds into the car-filled parking lot, her shoulders stiff and head held high. Donna sits back down and pulls her chair close to the bed, taking Josh’s hand in hers once more. She’s surprised when he rubs his thumb over her knuckles, eyes flickering open.

“Miss you,” he mumbles, lids drifting closed again.

This time the tears rush hot to her eyes and she doesn’t try to stop them.

_3 July, 2010; present day_

At the slightest hitch in his breathing Donna looks up from her notes on a position paper she’s drafting. He’s still out, thank God. She sets her folder down on her lap and lets out a quiet sigh. Her face feels sticky and her eyes gritty and she knows she should get some sleep, but this chair is so damn uncomfortable and she really needs to finish these reports if she’s going to be taking the next three weeks off.

The physical therapy team had gotten him out of bed that morning, tracking closely behind him with a wheelchair as he limped up and down the hall, trying to work the stiffness out of his joints. He explained to Donna last night that he’d been able to run after the attack on the compound he’d been held in; he remembered being carried between two men, his shoulders on fire as they draped his arms around their necks and sprinted to safety under the barrage of bullets.

But after the adrenaline had worn off and his body had taken stock of its injuries, he realized trying to put weight on his right leg proved difficult. The doctors said he had a slight fracture of the pelvis that had already begun to heal, but the main source of pain was from the deep bone bruise to his femur. Pieces of the cinderblock wall had rained down on him in the blast and, had he not been pressed into the corner avoiding most of the debris, he could’ve easily been crushed.

There was nothing to be done now except manage the pain and press on with an ‘easy regimen’ that left him sweating and trembling with exhaustion.

After he came back from PT that morning, there was another round of drips and more pills to swallow, then he’d had more blood drawn. He ignored his lunch of yogurt and chicken soup – something the nurses weren’t pleased about – begging off that his stomach was bothering him. Donna mentioned it as an aside when the doctor had come in to do his noon rounds and he chalked it up to the antibiotics on an empty stomach.

The older gentleman with a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair had looked up from the heart monitor printouts to give Josh an understanding smile. “Vicious cycle, I know,” he commiserated, then all but ordered Josh to at least make an effort with some yogurt if he harbored any hopes of going home in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.

Josh was still refusing to sleep and Donna had been trying to get the pillows positioned around his hip to take some pressure off when Kate Harper stepped into the room at half-past one. After exchanging pleasantries and expressions of relief that Josh had been returned safely, she mentioned needing to conduct a full debrief as soon as possible.

Josh blanched at that, but said nothing, so Donna stepped in. “He said he talked to some people in Ramstein already.”

Kate nodded sympathetically, crossing her arms over her chest as she glanced at her feet. “I know – and believe me I wish we didn’t have to do this, but those were just preliminary statements. For our purposes, we’ll need to go into more detail.”

“I _told_ them all that I remember,” Josh responded somewhat plaintively. 

“I know, Josh,” Kate agreed, her mouth a firm line indicating she had no desire to do what she’d been tasked with doing. “But it’s procedure and now that you’re home –”

“I’m _not_ home. In fact, I’m tied to a damn hospital bed in another _state_.”

Donna saw him begin to get agitated, recognized the pitch and waver in his voice, though to the untrained ear he simply sounded annoyed. “Can it _wait_?” she pleaded. “He’s really not feeling up to it.”

“I’m sorry, Donna…Josh. It’s best to do these things sooner, rather than later – while everything is still fresh in the mind.”

Glaring, Josh managed to keep his voice even when he asked, “Oh, you’re worried I’ll forget some time in the near future?”

Kate at least had the good grace to look ashamed at what she’d just said. “Be that as it may…”

“When?” he snapped.

They settled on the coming Thursday and Kate left her card with Donna, slipping out of the hospital room with a solemn expression.

“What do they want?” he bit out as soon as she cleared the room. “I don’t know what they want me to say. They asked the _same damn questions_ in Germany and Kazakhstan and they’re gonna ask the _same damn questions_ here.”

She rubbed the top of his arm, squeezing it at the elbow, trying to calm him down. “I’m sure we can postpone – it’s not like they can force you to do this right now. We’ll give it some time, wait until you’re ready.”

“I don’t wanna do _any_ of it, ever. I want it to be _finished_. I want _out_ of this hospital and I want – ” He stopped abruptly, his mouth literally snapping shut as he’d pressed his head deep into his pillow and clamped his eyes closed. 

It was the first time he’d shown any emotion other than joy to be home and she wondered how fast things were catching up to him. Ruth was at the medical store picking up some things for the apartment they were going to need for the next few weeks and Donna was sure the timing of this partial breakdown wasn’t a coincidence.

“Hey. Shh – what is it?” she murmured, taking his hand in hers. His skin was clammy as he gripped hers tightly, heedless of the IV; she could feel the slight tremor, nervous energy coursing through him like electric.

He swallowed hard and took several deep breaths, each one coming faster than the other.

“Joshua. Slow down and tell me what’s wrong.” 

Her eyes were burning, but she ignored it, schooling her expression into something open and accepting, not reflecting the exasperation she felt beginning to broil within her. Not at him, of course, but the situation, that she couldn’t seem to be able to help him or calm him down in any way. He’d lain awake through most of the night, drifting off for fifteen, twenty minutes at a time. Never far from consciousness herself, she’d sensed when he was no longer sleeping and sat with him in silence until he caught one of the jumbled thoughts that had been flitting through his brain.

“What’re the numbers in Congress?”

“Did Rocco’s Tacos ever reopen?”

“Will I still have my old phone number?”

“How did Sam do on the budget?”

She had answered each question patiently, some taking longer than others when she had to dig up information tucked in the far recesses of her mind, but she wasn’t sure if he was really listening to her while she was speaking. It wasn’t the words, rather, the sound of her voice that had seemed to register with him.

But now, nothing she said seemed to be getting through and she could see the numbers ratcheting higher as her eyes flickered up to the monitors.

“Josh?”

“I just wanna go _home_ ,” he’d whispered, voice cracking on the last syllable. 

She barely heard him over the soft whir of the air conditioning, but her heart clenched and she brought her wet face down to his hand and whispered against his knuckles, “I know.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josh is home. Now what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long hiatus! Work caught up with me and I had to put this on the back burner. Thank you to those of you still sticking with me on this. And an even bigger thank you to afiakate and spinninginfinity for their watchful eyes and suggestions. You gals are great.
> 
> Here is a little more scene-setting - I promise the _plot_ -plot will start soon.
> 
> Let me know if you liked this chapter!

_4 July, 2010; Present Day_

Aside from their quick stop at Baskin Robbins on Connecticut, the ride home from the hospital is uneventful. They take a pair of SUVs sent by the White House, but decide against a full motorcade to keep a lower profile.

Which doesn’t really matter because their sidewalk is teeming with reporters and news cameras when the driver pulls to a stop in front of the apartment building. They stay inside the spacious Suburban as the team of Secret Service agents assigned to them push through the throng of people and try to set up some level of order amid the chaos.

Donna takes his hand, watching his profile as he stares apprehensively through the tinted glass at the mass of clambering arms and flashing bulbs. The crowd is dotted with posters covered in hearts and smiley faces and ‘Welcome Home!’ messages in red, white and blue, but there are far more journalists and photographers, each eager to catch a picture or land a statement. His mouth is set in a firm line and brow furrowed – with worry or anger, she’s not sure – but his grip is weak at best, his skin clammy.

“You gonna be okay?” she asks, squeezing in reassurance.

He nods, but doesn’t look convinced.

“Josh, I’m sorry.”

He pulls his focus from what’s happening outside the window, his frown deepening, prompting her to continue.

“I didn’t know it would be like this. I should’ve called Ms. Gresham to see – ”

“This isn’t your fault,” he interrupts softly.

People are being responsive to the agents’ requests from what they can tell inside the car, but the areas they’re occupying on the sidewalk are tiny and all of them are still jockeying for the best position.

“Maybe we should wait,” Ruth offers, peering nervously through the back window. “This is a circus.”

“I need to get outta here,” Josh says with a hint of urgency in his voice. He gives Donna’s hand a final squeeze before letting go to unbuckle his seat belt; Donna and Ruth to do the same.

The lead agent raps his knuckles on the front passenger window and the driver steps out, taking his place on the left side of the crowd. The same agent opens the rear door and leans in. 

“You ready?”

None of them answer, but Josh manages to slide out stiffly by taking the arm of the Secret Service agent; Donna is right behind him. He reaches for her blindly and they follow the agent, heads down, as he guides them through the narrow passage between the people. Ruth is close behind with another agent at her side, avoiding the microphones that are shoved at her as she tries to pass.

The driver and the other agents hold the crowd at bay, each with their arms spread wide and chests pressed against the melee. The trio is peppered with questions as they shuffle past the crowd up the front steps – 

_“Mr. Lyman, how has your experience changed your views on the American presence in Kazakhstan?” – “How does it feel to have your son back, Mrs. Lyman?” – “Were you tortured, Josh?”– “Ms. Moss, what role did you play in your husband’s return?” – “Did the US pay a ransom for you, Mr. Lyman?”_

– and Josh nearly trips as he lunges toward the needed support of the handrail. Donna bats at a camera that’s suddenly forced in their faces by a photographer who is leaning well over the line established by Secret Service. Within a second, an agent has the camera – and the photographer – in his custody and is barking a warning to everyone else.

The lead agent – tall and slender with short-cropped black hair and a warm complexion – extends his hand to Josh and helps pull him into the foyer of the apartment building. After Donna and Ruth cross the threshold, a second agent closes the door behind them. 

“Everyone all right?” the second agent asks.

They give him shaky nods and allow the two to flank from the front and back as they ascend the stairs. Ruth follows behind Josh, her hand on his back, while Donna stays on his right side, his arm draped over her shoulder as he slowly pushes himself up, one step at a time.

“We knew there would be a few reporters, but nothing like that,” Donna says, laughing nervously in the midst of the tension. “Do you need to rest?” she asks Josh in a hushed tone when they’re halfway up.

“No,” he breathes quietly. “Keep going.”

“Apologies about that, ma’am,” the lead agent says over his shoulder, taking in the second floor as he clears the landing. “They’re allowed to be there, so long as they stay on the sidewalk.”

“That’s okay,” she excuses, focused on keeping Josh’s slow pace. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name at the hospital.”

“Mike Velasquez.”

“Thank you, Mike.”

“We’re certainly sorry about that, ma’am.”

“It’s not your fault – we’re the ones who said no to the extra detail. We didn’t think it would be this bad and didn’t want the unnecessary attention.”

“We can easily assign you an additional one.”

“Could you?” Donna asks, watching his back as he opens the door with the keys she’d given him on the drive over. “I don’t know how we’re gonna get through that every time we need to run errands.”

Mike steps in and does a quick canvas of the apartment. By the time he exits, Donna, Ruth and Josh have reached the second floor landing.

“I’ll get on that. Apartment’s clear,” he says, both to them and into the tiny receiver clipped at his wrist. He pushes the door open then moves to support Josh from his left side. 

The three manage to shift sideways through the front door and Josh gestures toward the couch. They lead him over and he promptly collapses with a pained sigh.

“I’ll be right out here and Steve’s posted at the front entrance. You’ll have use of the Suburban for the rest of the day if you need it. And I’ll talk to Director Butterfield about the extra detail immediately.”

“Thank you, Mike,” Donna repeats for the second time in as many minutes.

Josh extends a hand from the couch and manages a winded, “Thanks.”

“Not a problem. We’re all happy to have you back, Mr. Lyman. Let us know if you need anything.”

Mike closes the door behind him and the room is suddenly quiet, humming with muted noise from the air conditioner and the occasional car passing.

No one says anything for a long time. Josh is taking in the apartment, seemingly oblivious to the two women in the room with him, studying him, watching for any sudden changes in expression or demeanor.

“Joshua, do you need anything?” Ruth asks after several silent minutes. “Do you want something to drink? Your ice cream?”

“I thought I did, but…not right now, Ma, thanks. Maybe put it in the freezer.”

“What about food? Are you hungry? I made soup yesterday – matzah.”

“I’m all right.”

“Well, I’ll heat it just in case.”

“Okay.”

Josh and Donna trade small smiles as Ruth retreats to the kitchen. 

She’d been going stir crazy at the hospital, so Donna had asked her to pick up some things like the shower chair and the blood pressure cuff and heart monitor. The doctors were worried about the arrhythmia Josh had been having and, given his history and the prolonged high levels of stress he’d endured, it was something they wanted to keep an eye on. Donna hadn’t gotten rid of anything of Josh’s, but most of the clothes were going to be too big for him, at least for the time being, so she’d also asked her to pick up some new shirts and jeans and sweatpants. 

Apparently, Ruth had also seen fit to make enough food to last into the weekend, which Donna wasn’t going to complain about. She had no desire to cook – she didn’t want to leave his side, not for a minute, if she could help it. 

Donna moves next to Josh on the couch and they both sit, engrossed in the soft noise from the street below, broken intermittently as Ruth took out pots and spoons. 

“Everything okay?” she asks after a moment.

Josh turns to face her, a questioning look on his face.

“I asked if everything was okay.”

“Oh,” he says quickly, nodding before adding sheepishly, “I didn’t…it’s bigger than I remember.”

She smiles and reaches for his hand. “I promise I didn’t add any square footage while…” 

She trails off, incapable of finishing her thought aloud. Josh notices and gives her a tight smile in return before pulling his hand away and placing it in his lap. 

“She was like this after my sister died,” he says vaguely, keeping his voice low but speaking loud enough to be heard over the closing of cabinets and water running.

Donna’s hand feels cold in the absence of his and she makes a fist, withdrawing it to keep from reaching for him again. “Who?” she asks distantly, not really processing what he’d just said.

He tips his head toward the kitchen. “She was always cleaning, cooking, rearranging furniture. All hours of the day, night. Then she’d crash and not do anything for…weeks, I guess.”

“That happened after…while…” Donna stutters to a stop once more, frowning in frustration at herself that she was unable to voice what had actually happening. “She came to DC after it happened and stayed with me for a few weeks. She was…we were _both_ a mess.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Please. You didn’t do anything.”

He says nothing to counter or agree, so they both sit silently, listening to Ruth’s commotion in the kitchen, until Josh yawns. 

Donna gives him a moment before asking, “You tired?”

He nods and she pushes herself to her feet with a stiffness she’d acquired after two nights spent in hospital chairs. 

“Maybe you can get a nap in before dinner,” she offers, leaning over to help him from the couch.

That night she holds him tightly, his head buried in the blankets by her hip as the fireworks explode a few blocks away. The blinds are pulled shut, but every now and then a sparkle seeps through, sending a flash of glittering light across their darkened bedroom. Concussive blasts radiate throughout the apartment and she feels him tremble in time with their crackle and boom.

Through her tears, she whispers, “I’m sorry,” even though she knows he can’t hear her.

\---


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few glimpses into an adjustment period.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a full and grateful thanks to afiakate and spinninginfinity for helping with the betas on this. I added a bit more after they took a look, so I'll still shoulder the burden of poor grammar. ;) Hope you guys are enjoying. I apologize for my slow posting nature, but I promise to keep going on this until it's finished if you're willing to putter along with me!

_6 July, 2010; Present Day_

It’s dark when she wakes, unsure of what pulled her from sleep. When she feels the bed shift suddenly, she pushes herself up, alert. “Josh?” she asks, her tone colored with anxiety.

“Sorry,” Josh hisses, slowly swinging around so his feet are on the floor. “I was trying to be quiet.”

“That’s okay,” she yawns, heart rate stabilizing as she ignores the clock that reads 3:24. She knots her hair back in a loose ponytail and stumbles out of bed. “Let me help you – you’re stiff when you wake up like this. What do you need?”

“I can manage. Go back to sleep.”

“ _Josh_.”

“Bathroom.”

She lurches blindly around the foot of the bed and wipes the sleep from her eyes. 

“Donna, I really think – ”

“That I’m already awake and gonna race you to the toilet if you don’t work with me here?” Even though he can’t see it, she gives him a pointed look as she leans over and wraps her arms around his ribs, lifting gently as he pushes himself up, just like the physical therapist had shown her.

He’s winded when he says, “I should sleep on the couch.”

“I told you, it’s _okay_.”

“You haven’t gotten a night’s sleep since I’ve been back.”

She guides him to the door with a wry smile, parking herself at the threshold while he does his business. “Trust me when I say I’ve slept better the last few nights than I have in the last two years.”

He finishes up, then washes his hands and limps back into the bedroom. “Only part of me wants to believe that,” he replies, gingerly draping his arm over her shoulders.

She places her hand over his heart and walks him slowly back to the bed. “You wanna take one of your pills?”

He tenses and she’s sorry she suggested it. When he doesn’t answer, she rubs his chest, peering around to look at his face. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he repeats, voice heavy.

“ _No_. Josh, I shouldn’t have…I’m sorry.”

He eases himself onto the bed with a pained sigh and reaches tentatively for her bruised wrist. “Don’t apologize; not when I’m the one that hurt you.”

She wraps her hand around his and leans forward, giving him a gentle kiss on his forehead. “You didn’t hurt me; not really. But I want you to be able to sleep. This two hours here, three there, it’s not enough.”

“I know,” he grunts, trying to shift backwards, away from the edge. “But…if I need to wake up and _can’t_ …”

She pulls the blankets up and helps him tuck his feet under, positioning the pillow so it supports his battered leg. “I know,” she echoes.

He’s quiet for the longest moment, dark eyes trained on her face, and she can see regret written there. “Donna – ”

“Hey,” she interrupts softly, refusing to let him voice another apology, “you need anything?”

He reaches for her, his fingers brushing her thigh before finding purchase on her hip. “I’m okay,” he whispers.

She gives him a soft kiss on the lips and rests her forehead against his, her cool palm pressed flat against his warm cheek. She closes her eyes and relishes the feel of him. “Me, too.”

\---

Her arm is around his waist as she slowly leads him into the living room. “When your mom gets back, maybe we could – ”

“Donna…what the hell is _that_?”

Donna stops suddenly, alarmed as she tries to see what he’s noticed. “What is what?”

“ _That_ ,” he explains, pointing to the window opposite them. “How did a – ”

“ _Oh!_ Oh, Josh, that’s…that’s just Boots.” 

He straightens stiffly and she shifts in front of him, putting herself between Josh and the cat, smiling nervously as she tries to affect an air of nonchalance. At the sound of his name, though, the cat turns his head, focusing his green eyes on Josh with typical feline disdain.

Josh props his elbow against the doorframe, brows furrowed when he asks, “ _Boots_?”

“Yes,” she explains, realizing that’s not _actually_ explaining anything. Josh had been in the bedroom and the bathroom most of his first full day home and between the naps and the pills he hadn’t noticed much beyond his need to sleep. Now that he’s trying to move around, she kicks herself for not having thought enough ahead.

So she takes a deep breath and straightens, preparing to make her case in a rational manner. “He’s had his shots, he’s been neutered and he’s trained to use the litter box. His name is Boots because of his black feet – they look like snow boots,” she adds, smiling widely, though she knows her eyes still look worried.

Josh leans a little to the left, trying to peer over her shoulder as she speaks, but she stands on her toes to block him. 

“But…how – ” 

“I rescued him,” she supplies quickly, her resolve wavering as she launches into a disjointed explanation. “I was coming home and he was by the _trashcans_. It was raining and the terrier from across the street was loose, so I couldn’t just leave him and he was only a kitten and I _know_ you’ve never had pets, Josh, but he’s been good company for me and I’d _really_ like to talk about – ”

“Donna?” Josh interrupts gently, almost smiling. 

“Yes?”

“ _Relax_.”

She straightens, a look of comic confusion on her face. “Huh?”

“I don’t mind.”

She can feel her entire expression change from one of worry to wonder. “Really?”

He shuffles toward her, his arms open for a hug. “Yeah.”

“Oh…okay. Good,” she answers, a relieved smile taking over as she folds herself into his arms. She presses her face into his neck. “I thought I’d have to convince you,” she mumbles against his skin.

“It’s not that I don’t like pets. Just never had one. How long have you had him?” he asks as he smoothes his hand over the back of her head.

“A little over a year.”

He chuckles a little into her shoulder. “Well, if you haven’t killed him by _now_ …”

“They’ve actually been very self-sufficient.”

His hand stops.

“ _They_?”

\---

_7 July, 2010; Present Day_

She’s alert instantly, roused by his thrashing. “Josh, wake up,” she orders. His eyes are open, but he doesn’t react when she turns on the bedside lamp. “ _Josh!_ ”

When his kicking continues, she reaches for him, fingertips barely brushing his shoulder – and he nearly flies off the bed, arms flailing against her.

“No… _stop_ –  D-Donna?”

Her heart is racing and she has to stop herself from trying to touch him again – he’s still as close to the edge as possible, eyes wild. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Take a breath,” she says, gently, more for herself than him at this point. “Breathe.”

“ _Shit_ ,” he pants. He looks around the bedroom, seemingly to convince himself of his surroundings. When his eyes land on Donna, his shoulders fall.

“It’s okay,” she repeats, shifting, trying to close the distance between them, but still give him space. “Are you all right?”

He’s shaking his head numbly, voice trembling as he says quietly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t – I couldn’t…sorry.”

“It’s _fine_. I mean it. Just breathe. Lie back.”

“I can’t,” he sighs, shifting gingerly to put his feet on the floor.

She’s pulling the sheets back when she asks, “Do you want me to get you some water?”

“No, I…no.”

She watches as he leans over stiffly, reaching for the metal cane with a wrist cuff he’d been given by the physical therapist. He hadn’t used it much, seeming to prefer to lean on the furniture as he moved around the apartment, but he needed it to get out of bed by himself.

“Where are you going? Do you need me to – ”

“ _No,_ ” he answers sharply, and it’s enough to make Donna pause mid-motion, her feet suspended above the hardwood. “I…I’m sorry,” he grunts as he pushes himself to his feet. “I’m…I’ll be fine. Just need to walk around for a minute.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, not bothering to hide the worry in her voice as he shuffles toward the bedroom door.

“Yeah, I just – I need to…”

“Josh?”

“I’m okay. Just…go back to sleep,” he says over his shoulder as he limps into the living room.

She knows it’s impossible, but telling him that won’t do any good.

\---

Donna is flipping through the channels idly, hi-definition images sailing by unseen, before she lands on _The Price Is Right_ and decides it’s good enough. The physical therapist just left and she’d assumed Josh would’ve wanted to rest given his lack of sleep the night before, but he’s sitting at the opposite end of the couch, absorbed in the morning paper.

“It’s nine,” she begins tentatively, forcing a certain level of brightness when she suggests, “The press conference should be on. Do you wanna watch?” 

He doesn’t look up, his eyes carefully glued to the sports section. “No.”

The television volume is on low and someone wearing a Santa suit is running down the aisle. Donna tries to focus on that as she takes a drink from her lukewarm mug of tea. “Okay.” 

He glances up at that, brows lifted. “Do _you_?” he eventually asks.

She doesn’t. 

It’s actually the last thing she wants to see – the president remarking on their lives to the public like it’s any of their business, like people hadn’t forgotten that Josh was even missing; like they hadn’t nodded along dumbly with news reports speculating that he’d been beheaded, his body dumped un-ceremonially, left to rot somewhere within hundreds of square miles of rocks. Like he hadn’t been replaced by multiple consultants and “old friends” before President Santos had settled on Sam – someone Josh would’ve chosen immediately.

But she just shrugs and shakes her head. “Whatever you wanna do is fine. I don’t have to watch – I just thought you might want to.”

He goes back to the paper for a minute, then asks off-handedly, “You gave Lou our statement, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s all I care about.”

Donna watches him openly as his frown deepens and he flicks his wrists, straightening the pages on the paper. She knows he’ll say something in a moment to warrant his position because he thinks that’s what she wants from him. In truth, she just wants him to say something, _anything_ , about what he’s thinking; he doesn’t need any justification as far as she’s concerned. 

She tucks her bare feet beneath her on the couch and patiently sips her tea.

“It’s not that I don’t wanna watch,” he mutters. “It’s just…it’d be weird, right?” He looks up at her then. “Like…I dunno, having your voice on an answering machine played for the entire country.”

She places her mug on the end table and shifts so she’s facing him. “It’s okay if you don’t want to watch it.”

He returns her gaze evenly, opening his mouth to say something, but stopping short. He goes back to his paper and seconds later his face is etched in misery. He flips the page, obviously continuing an article, and Donna goes back to Drew Carey.

“The President’s numbers aren’t good – forty-one percent at four months out.”

“Sullivan got a bump on national security with the attempted consulate attack Monday,” she comments absently. A woman dressed as a biker chick – or maybe she really is a biker chick – comes on down. 

“Which doesn’t make _any_ sense because it wasn’t Ray Sullivan’s security forces that prevented it. And he’s at sixty-three on ‘shares our values’ – what the hell _happened_ when I was gone?” he demands, his voice rising a full octave.

The conversation is familiar, and she’s almost sucked into the comfort it brings. “The public wants daddy and he isn’t – wait a second. What’re you reading?” she asks, leaning toward him and trying to see around the edge of the paper. “You’re supposed to have the _sports_ section.”

He pulls the newspaper away from her, frowning. “It’s not – ”

“ _Josh_.” 

“ _What_?” he sighs, slapping the paper into his lap. “Donna, I can’t just…bury my head in the sand. It’s driving me _nuts_ not knowing what’s happening.”

“What’s happening is there’s nothing happening – and once you know that, you’re gonna want to do something to _make_ something happen, but you _can’t_ and that’s going to drive you even more crazy. Tell me that’s not true.”

His mouth opens, then closes as he shakes his head. “I…don’t even know what you just said right then.”

“Josh, _leave it_.”

“Well, what if I _can_ do something?”

She doesn’t miss his glance at the stack of envelopes on the table by the front door. Judging by the return addresses, there are several dozen letters from TV networks, newspaper and magazine editors all wishing to express their joy at Josh’s safe return home – and all graciously offering a venue for him to talk about his experiences.

“Please tell me you’re not considering those.”

He pushes himself up from the couch with a grunt and staggers stiffly toward the door. “Why not?”

“Josh, we talked about this yesterday.”

“We talked about how we wanted our _privacy_ – ”

“Which we do.”

“ _Yes._ But why not have _me_ put my story out there instead of letting people speculate off White House spin?”

Donna turns on the couch and puts both feet on the floor, ready to stand and put up a full counter, but forces herself to stay seated for the time being. “Because you wouldn’t be putting your story out there to set the record straight – you’d be doing it because you think it might help the president’s campaign.”

“And what’s so bad about that? Huh? What’s so bad about wanting to keep a sensible _Democrat_ in office instead of Duke Nukem?” Josh grabs a few of the envelopes from the top of stack and proffers them in her direction. “These could be a chance to do that.”

She pushes herself up at that, raking her fingers through her hair and forcing herself to take several deep breaths. “These people don’t care about politics and talking points – they want tears. They want drama for the Sunday night news audience and middle-aged housewives after their kids are at school. I can’t believe that _I’m_ the one having to point this out to _you_.”

Josh manages half a smile and sets the envelopes down, gently taking her by the shoulders. “Donna, it won’t be like that. We’ll go through Lou – make sure we get an approved list of questions before we even think about sitting down. She’ll get me briefed on the current agenda and we’ll find a way to work it into everything.”

“ _Josh_ …” She turns away, sniffing hard as she struggles to keep control of her voice. “I can’t.”

“Donna, I _do_ want you by my side if I do this, but I wouldn’t ask you to – ”

“That’s not what I mean,” she interrupts.

“Then what is it?”

She shakes her head and presses a white-knuckled fist to her mouth, shoulders visibly shaking as she struggles to hold back the tears.

Josh steps behind her, places his hand gently at the small of her back. “Donna?”

She sniffs loudly, taking a deep breath as she composes herself and says in the calmest voice possible, “Because I _refuse_ to let what happened to you be exploited in a campaign effort for a man whose Administration gave up on finding you over a year ago.”

\---

Ruth watches Josh from the corner of her eye as he struggles through sorting navy and black dress socks. She would take them from him if she didn’t have her own pile waiting in the wings. 

“I really wish you wouldn’t…”

She looks up, continuing to fold a t-shirt as she asks, “Wouldn’t what?”

“Look at me like that,” he finally mumbles, his posture tense.

“Like what? What are you talking about, Joshua?”

“Like you…” He sighs and tosses a wadded up pair of socks into the half-full basket by his feet. “Like I’m gonna disappear. I’m _home_ ,” he insists, pasting on a smile as he holds his arms out to his sides. He steps behind her for a hug and places a kiss on the top of her head. 

“I’m getting better, so you don’t have to worry so much now,” he whispers against the soft curls in her graying hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She holds onto him for a moment, covering his arms with her own as she leans back against his chest. The setting sun’s rays filtering through the curtains of the guest room provide the only light and it’s quiet now that the evening traffic through the neighborhood has died down.

She sniffs then pats his hand as she straightens. “I’ll always worry – I’m your mother,” she replies, dismissing his attempts to assuage her anxieties as she returns to folding clothes. “And don’t try to convince me you’re ‘fine’. I’ve known you longer than you’ve known yourself,” she adds quietly.

“What’re you – ”

“What did you mean?” she asks, careening the conversation in another direction.

He shuffles around her and sits on the edge of her bed, careful of the stacks of laundry – his old shirts and jeans, the ones that had smelled like a musty closet. “When?”

“‘Not in front of her’ – what did you mean when you told Donna that this morning?”

She lifts her eyes from the clothes, still folding furiously, but holding a steady gaze as she waits for an answer.

She’d come back from a trip to the corner bagel shop and caught them in the kitchen, arguing – whether or not he should do something she had later surmised. It hadn’t been so loud that she could hear it in the hall, but she recognized the tightly controlled nature of her son’s voice over Donna slamming the cabinets.

“We were having a disagreement. I don’t…it’s…” He trails off, hands opening weakly in his lap. “I didn’t want to fight in front of you, is all – it has nothing to do with…”

“With what?”

“With…I don’t _know_ ,” he sighs, exasperation thick in his words. “Anything you _think_ it might have to do with. It was just…we were having a disagreement.”

“Okay.”

“ _Ma_.”

“ _What_ , Joshua? I said ‘okay.’”

“Yeah, but the way you said it –”

“I don’t know how else to say it, son,” she interrupts gently, a hint of apology in her tone. “How is your hip today?” she asks after a quiet minute.

“Better,” he answers automatically.

“I haven’t seen you do your exercises the therapist leaves for you.”

“ _Ma_ , –”

“Joshua, you can do them or not do them, that’s entirely up to you.”

“ _Good._ Glad we can agree on that.”

“But you’ll be in a wheelchair in ten years if you don’t.”

“Happy I’ve got your vote of confidence in my recovery.”

“Things don’t heal at the same rate. This has as much to do with you recovering as it does with simply getting older.”

“It’s not the same.”

“It all ends up the same. You _used_ to run. You were always out, jogging. You –”

“Well, I’ve been _shot_ and kidnapped since then, so I’m sorry I’m not out signing up for the next half-marathon.”

His mouth snaps closed, but it’s too late – the words have escaped. He stares back at Ruth, eyes wide, lips pressed together tightly, and it takes everything she has to hold the tears at bay.

She pats the tower of t-shirts down with a heavy hand, steadying it so it won’t topple, then whispers harshly, “And you sit here and try to tell me you’re ‘fine’ after those people take you and put you in that hole and did God knows what to you?”

“Mom, I didn’t mean – ”

She interrupts, the pitch of her voice rising with every syllable. “I was in the hospital and you didn’t even know where you were.”

“That wasn’t – ”

“I hear you when you wake up at night and I – ” She stops abruptly, the words catching in her throat. She swallows hard and smoothes her hand over a pile of sweatpants before finally confessing, “I don’t know how to help you.”

She closes her eyes tightly, reigning in the tears, but when his hand covers hers, they fall freely down her cheeks. 

“You _do_ help. You’re helping every day – you’re helping _now_. You know I can’t do laundry,” he adds, his laugh trailing off when she doesn’t return the smile.

She grips his hand and sighs, taking a deep breath and steadying herself. She can feel the weight of his gaze – his brown eyes even darker when he’s upset about something – but can’t bring herself to return it.

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

“It’s all right.”

“No, not for – I mean, _yes_ , but for…”

She looks up at that, confusion written on her face. “For what, honey?”

He’s staring at his hands in his lap, his mouth twisted up, face pulled into that expression of consternation he’d worn since he was a child. His voice is thick, heavy with regret when he answers, “I’ve…put you through a lot.”

She comes around the corner of the bed and sits next to him, heedless of the towers of clothes that tumble over next to them. “What do you mean?” she asks slowly, trepidation coloring her tone.

“This,” he says, gesturing to weakly to himself. “When I got shot…I wasn’t…I should’ve been there for you with Dad and then when I… _Joanie_.”

“Oh, Joshua, _no,_ ” she says, her voice breaking as she pulls him tightly into her arms, forgetting about the lingering bruises and cuts that peppered his torso. “No, no, no. You didn’t _do_ anything. You’re my sweet boy, you _couldn’t_. I’m your _mother_ ; I’m supposed to pro _tect_ you,” she cries, her voice finally breaking. “How did I let all of these horrible things happen to you? If anything, I should’ve – ”

He squeezes her, hard, and she stops short, capping the faucet the words threatened to flow freely from. 

“ _No_ ,” he grinds out, still holding her close. “This is not for you to take. This wasn’t…it had nothing to do with you. It was _my_ fault. _I’m_ the one who wanted to go. _I_ …” He sniffs loudly, and lifts his head, letting his chin rest on her shoulder. “I did this to you…to Donna.”

\---  
 _8 July, 2010; Present Day_

She can sense he’s not sleeping before she opens her eyes. Maybe that’s what wakes her.

She rolls over slowly, catching the broad expanse of his t-shirt covered shoulders. He looks stiff, too still to be resting comfortably, and practically on the edge of the bed.

“Josh?” she whispers, reaching for him, then stopping at the last moment. 

He can’t see her touch coming and it will startle him, a fact that breaks her heart if she thinks too much about it. She already has.

He shifts, but just barely, his head turning toward her voice.

“You okay?”

He only nods and the sound of his hair brushing against the pillowcase is loud in the pre-dawn silence.

She says nothing, but continues to watch him. 

He must feel her eyes on his back, because he says, “I don’t wanna do the debrief today.”

His voice is raspy from sleep, but alert, like he’s been awake for some time.

She opens her mouth to tell him to consider otherwise, but stops, suppressing her instinct to push him, to urge him to do it and put it behind him. She doesn’t know why. Maybe because of the argument they’d had yesterday or the fact that he hadn’t seemed to have slept in the last three days. Whatever it is, she can’t bear the thought of being party to causing him any more grief.

\---


End file.
